The Keeping of Words
by BryWrites
Summary: One summer, she made him a promise to stay, not knowing that she would spend the next four years proving to him that she could keep her word. He would leave, in one way or another, and somehow she always found him. Love was weird that way. "Spencer, I'm not a genius. I don't have an eidetic memory. But I remember everything about you. And do you know why?" Reid/OC
1. 1) An Unusual Suspect

**Author's Note:**

 **Of course, I don't own any of the characters on Criminal Minds. But I do have a soft spot for our favorite genius, who never seems to catch a break from the writers. So I figured it was time to write him a bright spot in the tangle of darkness the BAU is so often subject to.**

 **While this fic will span across multiple seasons, it begins in Season 5, not long after "100."  
Reviews - especially constructive criticism - are always much appreciated.**

* * *

 _"It means a great deal to those who are oppressed to know that they are not alone. Never let anyone tell you that what you are doing is insignificant" –Desmond Tutu_

* * *

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," the red-haired man before them said, leading the team up a flight of stairs.

"Oh, believe me, we've had shorter," Rossi replied. "And more urgent as well."

"Either way, we're glad to have you here." He pushed open glass double-doors into a conference room not all that unlike their own in Quantico.

A small group sat around a table full of file folders, and as they entered, the woman in the center of them stood in greeting. She was tall, black, and serious-looking.

"You must be the team from the BAU," she said. "Thank you for coming. My name is Dr. Josephine Baker. I'm a legal advisor at the New York Office of the United Nations. Allow me to introduce you to my own team." She gestured around the circle to each person in turn, moving from her left to her right. "You've already met Jonathan Turner." The red-haired man took his seat at the table. "He and Marcus Marius are both lawyers." Marius was bald, with thick glasses. "Judge Kana Mogami is here from the International Criminal Court." A middle-aged Japanese woman looked up from the notes she was taking. "Elise VanBuren works for Amnesty International." The lady with long blonde hair nodded. "And Bianca Brown is human rights activist." A young woman with short, dark hair gave a quick wave.

"I'm Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner. These are SSAs Morgan, Rossi, Prentiss, and Jareau, and our own Dr. Reid. What exactly would you like us to do?"

"Wilson Okello has been on the list of every human rights group for the last decade. He's a Sudanese warlord, charged with murder, genocide, and recruiting child soldiers, among other things. We've spent almost two years tracking his movements, but he's continued to evade capture. Last month, we received a tip from intelligence agencies that he's made plans to flee to the US by a ship that will reach port in New York City. I'm told that your team is the best in the world when it comes to finding suspects, and our window of opportunity to catch Okello is closing fast. We need your help."

"Usually, we're looking for unknown subjects based on the nature of their crimes," Morgan interjected. "You already know who you're looking for."

"Which is why this mission should be far easier than most. We can tell you everything about Okello. Who he trusts, what his hobbies are. What his crimes are like, what his victims are like; we can even tell you about his childhood and his favorite foods," Dr. Baker assured him. "Please. If he's not found, countless more people are going to die. And countless more children will be forced to kill for him."

After a long pause, Hotch finally asked, "Where would you like us to start?"

Dr. Baker gave a small smile. "I presume you'd prefer to divide and conquer. Marius and Judge Mogami can inform you about the criminal case against him. Turner and I can help show you the ports of the city and possible hideouts. Miss VanBuren has a list of allies and associates, and Miss Brown will remain here to assist with any research. If you'll assign your team, we can get to work."

Hotch nodded. "Prentiss and I will check out the criminal case."

"I'll go with Turner and Dr. Baker to map out the ports," Rossi volunteered.

"Great," Hotch said. "JJ, go with VanBuren and start working on a press release we can put out to the city. All the possible names and faces. And Morgan, call up Garcia. You and Reid stay here and let us know what you find out."

* * *

"So why have we never heard of this guy?" Morgan asked.

"Well, the FBI is mostly interior. This is international," Reid responded, sifting through piles of paperwork.

"I knew that," Morgan rolled his eyes. "I meant _we_ as in _the general public._ I mean, people like Putin and Castro and Kim Jong-il are all over the news, but this guy? Nothing."

"Unless you're a geographer or involved in human rights, Sudan isn't exactly a well-known country," Bianca Brown said. "There's this idea that Africa is full of problems. People there die all the time, and most Americans don't care if it's hunger or AIDS or a civil war. It still seems worlds away to them. When's the last time you remember hearing about someone like Okello?"

"There was the campaign against Joseph Kony," Reid volunteered.

"Yeah, and we all know how well that went," Garcia chimed in, the screen on Morgan's computer blinking to life.

Morgan grinned "Hey baby girl. Welcome to the party. What can you tell me about a Sudanese warlord?"

"I'm guessing this isn't going to be my kind of party," Garcia grumbled.

And so the four fell into a steady pace of work. Morgan would stop from time to time to toss an idea to Garcia, while Bianca explained the history of the case to Reid. It was fascinating, flipping through files compiled by a team. There were six sets of handwriting, six different points of view. Reid enjoyed trying to guess which of Dr. Baker's team had written which entries in the stacks of notes.

Though none of the self-made fonts would help him to profile the warlord they were after, he couldn't help but analyze them. Some had been written in neat and thick block letters, every last one capitalized, the mark of an impulsive person who craved recognition. Other pages were annotated with curling cursive that slanted far to the right, someone who was methodical and sentimental. He was most intrigued though, by the evenly-spaced, looping letters. Whoever had written those notes was intuitive and optimistic, the long curve of each "y" indicating someone who loved to travel, and the round bubbled dots of the lowercase "i" signifying an artistic, playful nature.

He wanted to pay closer attention to the gallery of graphology in those files, but he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. Garcia's voice drifted in and out all afternoon, accented by a flurry of typing. Morgan was amused, watching Bianca react to the flirtatious banter coming through the laptop speakers. The activist was first startled, then confused, but she seemed to accept it with a smile. The girl herself was spirited, almost animated in the passionate stories she told to the agents, explaining their arduous search for Okello and his army. She told stories with her hands, wild gestures that drew a laugh from Reid.

As the day drew to evening, Hotch called his team back to the hotel to float ideas and get some rest. It was only a short walk from the office to the hotel, for which Reid was grateful when he noticed the bookstore. The watch on his wrist told him there would be enough time to run in and pick up a few things- he wanted to read up on Wilson Okello, so he would feel more prepared tomorrow. It was odd, not being the expert in the room.

He wandered through the narrow aisles of the shop that seemed so brightly lit as the sky grew dimmer. He was balancing a towering stack in his arms when he stepped on someone's foot.

"Oh, man, um…" He glanced down to see whose toes he should be apologizing to, and was surprised to see a face he recognized. "…Bianca?" he asked. They'd parted ways only minutes earlier.

"Dr. Reid, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, evidently flustered. When she looked up at him, he saw warm brown eyes, and he had never realized that eyes could seem _warm_ , that their color could invite you in, make you want to stay.

"Sorry? I'm the one who should be apologizing, I stepped on your foot! And, I uh, I'm sorry about that," he added.

"It's fine, I'm okay. It happens a lot. People don't always see me." She was small, a fact that was even more obvious by Reid's own height. He had to be almost a foot taller than her. "What are you doing here? I thought your boss called you all back to put some information together?"

"He did, but I've got a some time, so I decided to pick up a little reading."

The young woman glanced at the stack of books dubiously. "That's only a little? Is all for the case?"

"Well, I read about ten books a week when I'm working. And most of them are, yeah. Sudanese histories, human rights law. Others are just for personal interest."

"Have you ever read Eleanor Roosevelt's autobiography? She was-"

"32nd First Lady of the United States, journalist, Chairperson of the Presidential Commission on the Status of Women, and one of the key writers of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights," he rattled off, the list clear in his mind. "But, no I haven't. Read her book, that is."

"Oh you have to! She's one of my favorite people of all time, but she never gets enough credit. I can show you where it, if you'd like?" He could've said no, bought his books and been on his way back to get work done, but that unspoken invitation in her eyes made him want to linger just a little longer. She led him through the maze of books and shelves until she found a copy of it. They stood in line together, where he purchased eight books to her one.

"Should I walk you back?" Reid asked, glancing down the crowded city block. He knew all to well how easy it was for a girl to disappear off of a street, even in a public place like this.

"Oh, no," Bianca assured him. "My apartment is right next door. Thank you though." She smiled. "I'll see you tomorrow. I hope you can make some time for Eleanor."

* * *

Bianca Brown had been in New York for ten months, two weeks, and five days. In that time, she'd seen various street performers, been accosted by a mime, had her breakfast stolen by a squirrel on two different occasions, and almost - it was the almost that she got caught up on, cursing office hours - met the guy who ran _Humans of New York._ It had been a shift, adjusting to the cold again after two years at Stanford, but Dr. Baker had offered her an incredible opportunity, interning at the New York office for the United Nations. That internship had evolved into a job with Dr. Baker and her group of human rights lawyers, which in turn had earned her a spot on the team hunting Wilson Okello.

Yet, in all her time in the city, and all of the people she had met through work, there were very few who stuck in her mind quite like Dr. Spencer Reid. There had been speakers and foreign ambassadors who she was inspired by, and people she dreamed of someday working with, but this was different. He wasn't someone in her field, and though she admired his intelligence, she knew that wasn't the whole reason he was still in her thoughts.

Bianca shut the door to her apartment, carefully sliding the deadbolt into place. She shrugged out of her backpack, setting it next to the small bookstore bag. Thirteen dollars she spent on a book- one she had promised herself she'd wait until next month to buy- solely so she had an excuse to talk to him. Quite literally bumping into him in the store had caught her off guard, but she found that once she started talking to him, she wanted to stay. It seemed odd to walk through the store with nothing to purchase, and so she'd picked up a copy of _Behind the Beautiful Forevers_ anyways, though she'd spent many an evening walking through bookstores alone with no intention of buying something. It must've been the company. Or maybe it was just Dr. Reid.

Slipping into the tiny bathroom to brush her teeth, the sight of her reflection shook her back into reality. On the whole, she was unremarkable. At 5'2", she was liable to get lost in the New York crowds. Brown hair, which she had chopped short on a whim only three months ago, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks, more evident in the summer. And Dr. Reid, she reminded herself, he was tall and there was something striking about his face, that sharp jawline and the way a smile changed his visage entirely.

Not to mention he seemed to be a certified genius, that much she had gleaned from the conversations between him and the other agents. She'd just gotten her Master's, and had little to her name other than her research articles, and the poetry collection she'd published in college, under a pen name. But that was something she prided on keeping private, now that she'd managed to pay off a portion of her student loans with the profits.

Sighing, Bianca retired to the small window in her bedroom. It faced out across the city, and during her first few weeks she'd often sat on the bed watching the lights, the glow and bustle of a living city. If she peered off to the side, she could see the awning of the hotel where the BAU team was staying. _FBI agents like that,_ she thought, _probably travel all across the country. There's no reason to think that he'd even notice me. It's probably just another case, just a job, something to get done so they can get home to their own places and their own apartments. For all I know, he could be married._

Her fingers traced the outline of buildings and windows, and she looked down, smiling at the tiny cactus growing in a coffee mug full of soil. Sometimes this city felt cold and lonely. Sometimes, she felt right at home. In a few days, she'd be turning twenty-five, surrounded by people she spent so many hours "saving the world" with, and a brilliant team who would help them to apprehend a man she'd spent the past year helping to track down. Whatever the reason for the tiny spark of hope she felt, Dr. Spencer Reid was one building over, and she was here, and just outside her window New York City sparkled like stars for miles.

* * *

The second day of work passed in a blur. The BAU team worked tirelessly to narrow down possible allies and strategies, while Dr. Baker's team mapped out locations and listed off intelligence tips. They split up after lunch, when Hotchner and his agents went to go meet JJ for the press conference, and reconvened for dinner. Dr. Baker had rented out the back room of a local pizza parlor, having insisted they could save time by working over dinner together.

Both teams arrived, filling in seats one by one. Bianca and Judge Mogami were the last to arrive. The only two seats remaining were in front of the door- between Morgan and Dr. Baker - and one wedged in the corner between Reid and Hotch. Bianca made a beeline for the chair in the corner, sitting down just as the pizzas arrived. There was a flurry of hands grabbing for slices and reaching for drinks before Dr. Baker calmed the crowd, clearing her throat loudly.

"Thank you for that press release Agent Jareau," she said. The matronly legal adviser always spoke in a formal tone, though not unkind or aloof. "If we're lucky we'll start receiving some information tonight. We believe that Okello will be arriving in the next two days, but we still aren't sure how or where."

"He'll likely come by a cargo ship. He won't risk traveling in a typical fashion, so that suggests he'll be in a box or a shipping container. It's possible he'll be wearing a disguise, but unlikely he'll be dressed like a typical New Yorker. If it was any other city, he'd stand out," Rossi advised.

"But this is New York City," Hotch declared. "And its diversity and eccentricity makes it perfect for someone who won't fit in. He wouldn't be able to get through customs without being noticed, so he would likely travel by car after arrival. Which means we have to work fast in order to intercept him."

While the two lawyers began throwing out possible ports and places to check, Prentiss leaned over to whisper to JJ. "Did you see her?" The dark-haired agent gestured at the short young woman across the table. There wasn't anything about her that immediately stood out, other than her lack of height. At the moment she was speaking to Reid with animated hand gestures.

"Brown? What about her?" JJ asked.

"There were two seats open when she arrived. Most girls her age would take the first open seat, especially since Morgan and her mentor are sitting right there. But she went to the corner seat. Why?"

"I don't know… She's small so she fits easily? She's the kind of person who always takes the worse option for herself?"

"Or it has to do with who she's sitting next to."

JJ glanced at the two men. Hotch was older, he wore a wedding band, so that seemed unlikely. She could see the way Bianca's chair was slightly angled to her left, the way her eyes flickered in that direction to Reid for just a split second, and then back. "You think this about Reid? She barely knows him."

"True, but they spent most of yesterday together - she might just feel comfortable around him. And Morgan was there, too. But she chose to sit by Reid. Doesn't that make you wonder?"

"Maybe they've met before," JJ suggested. The two women watched on, intrigued.

Across the table, Reid and Bianca were trading thoughts on the life of Eleanor Roosevelt, after she had recovered from the shock of hearing he had finished the entire book in a matter of minutes.

"Why do you like her so much?" Reid was asking.

"It's hard to pick just one reason. She was smart. She always stood up for what she believed in, even when it went against her husband's policies. And she did so much for human rights. I mean, the UN Human Rights Council has so much opportunity to do good. If only they had the power to enforce decisions the way the FBI does," she said wistfully.

"We're not exactly the most powerful side of the FBI," Reid conceded. The BAU, he explained, always had to be invited in to help with a case. If local law enforcement refused their help, their hands were tied unless state lines were crossed.

"But you make a difference," Bianca insisted. There was a pause as a question settled in her mind. "By the way, what are you a doctor of?"

"Well, I've got PhDs in Chemistry, Engineering, and Mathematics. But my undergrad degrees were in Psychology, Philosophy, and Sociology."

He said it so casually, and to him it had never been a big deal, but Bianca looked dumbfounded, her dark eyes blinking wide and awestruck. "How old are you?"

"29." He glanced over her, trying to estimate her own age. On one hand she was out of school, and she spoke with a particular air of maturity, so she had to be at least in her mid-twenties or early-thirties. On the other hand, she was so small her frame was practically childlike, making it difficult to surmise her age with any certainty. After settling on a ballpark estimate of 27, give or take a year, he gave in and asked, "How old are _you_?"

"25, with no PhDs to my name. Or at least, I'll be 25 in two days. All I want is for Wilson Okello to be locked up where he can never hurt another human being."

Spencer gave her a small, sad smile. "We'll do our best to make that happen."


	2. 2) Stories Shared

"Garcia, we've got a favor to ask," JJ said over the phone. She and Prentiss were sitting on the edge of one of the hotel room beds, legs crossed. They'd made an executive decision to call the tech analyst after watching the way Reid's eyes trailed after the girl as she left with her own team, how she turned back to see him one more time before pushing the door of the restaurant open and exiting out into the New York night. They were definitely intrigued now. This was Reid, their Reid, who'd always shown more interest in victimology than women, who spent most of dinners or time on the plane waiting for a chance to play chess or talk statistics rather than holding a conversation, especially with a stranger.

"What is it? I don't know how much more I can read about child soldiers in Sudan," she sighed.

"Nothing like that," Prentiss clarified. "We want you to look up someone for us. Bianca Brown." They'd made a promise a long time ago, never to profile each other, but this wasn't technically profiling, and it wasn't technically _Reid._ Just a girl he was talking to.

"The girl Reid and Morgan were working with yesterday?" Garcia recognized the name.

"Exactly the one," Emily confirmed. "What can you find out about her?"

There was the sound of frantic typing and pinging before her question was answered. "Okay," Garcia began. "Bianca Brown. From Columbus, Ohio… did well in high school… 4.0 GPA. Smart girl. She did her undergrad in Chicago, studying psychology and international relations… And got her master's from Standford last year."

"So that's a normal timeline. She didn't graduate early or anything. Garcia, is there anything else on her?" JJ asked. She and Emily had taken a stab at the possibility she was another child prodigy, but that seemed unlikely. She hadn't grown up in Nevada, and by the time she got to Stanford, Reid was already working for the Bureau. If she _had_ met Reid before, it would've likely been somewhere like a chess tournament or some kind of convention.

"I'm looking, I'm looking…" On the screen, Garcia glanced up at them with a frown. "No criminal record… She's been living in New York… Uh, she's been published?"

"Published? What for?" Prentiss asked. "A textbook? Anything that would've been relevant to our work? Something we might have needed to read?" It wasn't much of a stretch to conclude that he would remember an author of a book he'd read before.

Garcia typed away furiously at her keyboard. "Mm, probably not. It's a poetry collection, published under a pen name - Bianca Larson. That was almost four years ago. What's this about?" So that settled it. As far as Garcia could tell- and she could tell quite a lot, they knew- the two had never met before. Even more unusual.

"Reid," JJ interjected. "We thought she might know him."

"Is he in trouble?" Garcia asked, sounding nervous. "She seemed like a nice girl. I feel weird looking her up."

"Oh, this looks like just the opposite." Prentiss exchanged a knowing smirk with JJ. If he had no prior encounters with her, and she was still interested in talking to him, that had to mean _something_. It was decided between the three women that their resident genius was still clueless when it came to matters of the heart, and it couldn't hurt to take matters into their own hands and wait to see what came of it.

The two agents bid farewell to Penelope, and after a brief trip to the bookstore, were knocking at Reid's hotel door. He looked surprised when he answered, but invited them in nonetheless. A map was spread out over his bed next to a considerable pile of books. One was sitting open, a photo of Eleanor Roosevelt visible on the cover.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, moving his laptop off of the small couch so they could sit.

"Oh, _no_ , everything's great," Prentiss said. "We just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing."

Reid stared at them quizzically. "Um, I'm fine... Just doing some research for the case. Hey, did you know that Sudan has one of the worst child soldier problems in the world? It's estimated that over 17,000 children have been forced to fight for either the government or rebel forces- and that's even after roughly 25,000 were liberated from various rebel groups. Some carry semi-automatic rifles, some are spies, and still others act as human land mine detectors."

JJ grimaced. "As a mother, that's the exactly the sort of thing I try _not_ to think about."

"Actually, we didn't come to talk about the case," Prentiss told him. "We went down to get something to read on the plane ride home, and we saw something you might be interested in."

Reid's eyes lit up. " _Criminal Profiling_ , the fourth edition? Ken Jenning's _Maphead_?"

"No," JJ said slowly, in the sort of way that made clear that she hadn't heard of either. "This." She handed him a small maroon colored book. The cover was made to look like a polaroid holding the image of a galaxy was taped to it. The title was scrawled in big black letters - _A Song for Starlit Beaches._ On the bottom of the polaroid, it clarified: _Poems by Bianca Larson._ The name wasn't one he'd heard before.

"Look at the back cover flap," Prentiss instructed. He did as he was told, surprised to see a familiar face matching the unfamiliar name. In a polaroid similar to the cover image was a girl- younger, and turned to side- but unmistakably Bianca Brown. "Thought it might make for some interesting reading- at least a bit lighter than child soldiers in Sudan."

Reid thanked them, and after they had traded a chorus of "good nights," he sat down with the small red book, flipping to the first page. It looked as though the title page and dedication had been handwritten and transferred into ink. To his surprise, he could suddenly identify one of the six sets of handwriting he had seen the previous day. There in front of him were _g's_ and _y's_ with long, wayfaring curls, and the bubble dotted i's of a childlike visionary. _Fretful and insecure,_ he noted, inspecting the small sample of writing. _But also curious, determined, and compassionate._

He turned the page and enveloped himself in the words of a girl who was quickly becoming more and more interesting.

* * *

"Ethnic warfare, genocide, enslaving children… this guy should've been arrested years ago," Reid said, shaking his head. He was back at the office with Bianca, sifting through boxes of paperwork.

"You're telling me," Bianca sighed. "But Okello's not the only one. We can arrest him, send him to the ICC, and never let him out… but there are others waiting to take his place. Human beings who don't see other people as humans - just pawns in their plans. It just hurts my heart to see that…"

She looked so disheartened by the weight of those words. Spencer couldn't help but sympathize. "I know what you mean," he said, placing his hand on top of hers, and noting how his long fingers stretched over her own. "It's the same with the BAU. We see some of the worst of humanity… the things that people do to each other just to satisfy their own needs… It's not easy. Sometimes it hurts. We lose people, we find them at the worst, and know that their lives will never be the same. And there are times I wonder what would've happened- if we'd noticed something sooner, said something, done something… But that doesn't mean the work we do isn't making a difference. And it's the same for what you do. It matters."

"Like that starfish story," she said softly. "Have you ever heard it?" Reid shook his head, and Bianca took a deep breath, reciting the parable from memory:

" _There was an old man, walking on a beach the morning after a big storm. The shore was littered with debris washed up from the sea. In the distance he could see a figure, moving almost like a dancer. When he got closer, he saw it was a little girl. She wasn't dancing at all. She was bending down, picking up starfish from the sand, and tossing them back into the ocean. "Young lady," he asked. "What are you doing?" "The sun is coming up and the tide is going out. If I don't throw them back in, they'll dry up and die." The old man looked down the shore, where he could see hundreds of starfish washed up on the beach. "But little girl, you realize that there are starfish stranded down this beach for miles and miles. It doesn't matter if you toss them in or not, you can't save them all. You can't possibly make a difference." The girl just smiled, and bent down to pick up another starfish, throwing him back into the waves. She turned to face the old man, and said "It made a difference to that one.""_

" _It made a difference to that one,"_ she repeated. "I have that story taped up in my apartment. It's the first thing I see when I get home." Her words reminded him of the title of the book Prentiss and JJ had shown him, and the connection between the proverb and her poems seemed instantly apparent.

"That's why you write, isn't it?" he asked. Bianca turned to him, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Your book." He reached into his messenger bag, pulling out the copy Prentiss and JJ had delivered to him. "One of my colleagues showed it to me. I guess she noticed it at the bookstore? I mean, the last name is different, but that's you on the inside flap, isn't it? I haven't finished it all yet, but it's really good."

Her face turned the same shade as the book, and her mouth fell open just the slightest bit before she quickly tried to regain her composure. "I wrote that before I started here."

"But it's the same isn't it? I mean, so many of the poems, they talk about making a difference, about small acts of compassion and helping the world, about seeing other people as people… Writing about it, it helps, doesn't it? Why didn't you tell me you were a poet?"

"It didn't matter," Bianca replied. She looked embarrassed, and Reid wondered if it had been a mistake to bring it up. "When I wrote that, I was trying to get through school. I needed a way to pay for tuition, and so I worked to get them published. Otherwise, I would've just kept them personal. I mean, you're right, I wrote them because I wanted to help. And at the time I couldn't do much, so I used my words. But right now, I've got to focus on actions."

Her eyes trailed over the boxes full of files and notes. They seemed endless, full of words and letters that summarized the lives and crimes and pains of so many people; as though it were that simple to categorize such tragedy.

It seemed that she was trying to steer the conversation towards a different subject, but his head was still full of the verses she had written years ago, and he wanted to know what it would sound like to hear her describe the world in her own words. "Do you still write?"

She looked up at him. "I write essays, mostly. I write papers and do research. But sometimes, when I get home and I can't sleep, or when I have a day off and go walking in Central Park, I write what I want to write. But today isn't a day off. And my words aren't going to find Okello."

"Right," Reid agreed. He felt guilty for bringing it up. Of course, he should be just as focused. That was his job, wasn't it? Still, a part of him was relieved to know that she continued to difficult things into something beautiful with only a few syllables.

Reid glanced back at the bulletin boards the BAU had set up, now littered with pictures, notes, and the map of New York City he was using to set up a possible geographic profile. He'd sat down with Rossi the night before to go over various ports and harbors, and he'd taken notes from JJ's press release detailing Okello's former associates. It was harder working on the profile of a warlord- his victimology was difficult to pin down, and his motivations seemed to be more power and politically motivated, rather than personal. The few occurrences when he had ordered the murder of a particular person seemed to give the best insight, and they tried to decipher the meaning behind the killings of particular politicians, citizens, and even a few of his former officers.

"So what do you do?" Bianca asked. Her cheeks were still red, and she was staring intently down at the table. "To deal with everything you see."

Reid looked away from the map. What _did_ he do? Kept finding new things to have to deal with? Carried around drugs in his messenger bag for months before finally asking for help? Neither of those was the right answer. "I try to fill my mind with other things- trivia, facts, equations and things. I write letters to my mother, and sometimes putting all the details onto a page helps to empty them from my head. And if it becomes too much, I try listening to music, or playing chess, or talking to people."

He decided it was best not to mention that _people_ sometimes meant the crowd at the Beltway Clean Cops meeting. That was too much for a stranger to deal with. Instead he flashed her a grin. "It gets easier with time," he told her, wondering if that was really true.

* * *

"Garcia confirmed records of a plane ticket being purchased under the alias Dr. Baker gave us," Morgan announced to rest of the team, who were gathered in the conference room. "But she said he'd be traveling by boat, right?"

Hotch nodded. "I think it's safe to assume that she's correct in that. The plane ticket could be to throw intelligence off his trail, or to provide safe passage to an accomplice. When does it land?"

"Tomorrow, 8 PM New York time. It's headed for JFK airport," Morgan said. "Where are the closest ports?"

Reid glanced over the map on the board, his finger tracing over it. He grabbed for a handful of pushpins, sticking them in at various points. "Sunset Marina, Gateway Marina… Marina 59 seems too far inland to be likely… Depending on the size of the ship he's taking, the Red Hook Container terminal might be more likely." He glanced back at the team for approval.

"Marinas are mostly for small boats. I'd say our best shot is at the container terminal," Prentiss said. They devised a strategy, checking shipping schedules and incoming boats, looking for any that had originated or stopped near Egypt or Libya, with only two results docking the next night at the container terminal. Hotch requested NYPD presence at the terminal, the airport, and both Sunset and Gateway Marina, should they choose to take their chances on a smaller boat.

Dr. Baker arrived with her own team trailing behind her as the BAU filled them in. There was no need to give them a profile, since they knew so much about Okello to begin with, but they helped to review the one Rossi felt they were ready to present to the local police force. Everyone seemed anxious now that the imminent confrontation was beginning to feel real.

"We'd like to have your team members go with us to the various locations tomorrow night. It may help to have you on hand to recognize certain things," Hotch directed.

"Of course," Dr. Baker said. "Where do you want us?"

"I'd like Turner and Judge Mogami with Prentiss and Morgan at the container terminal." The unit chief gestured at the respective pushpin on the wall. "That's our best lead. I want JJ, VanBuren, and Marius at the airport, looking for his prospective allies- take the list with you. Dr. Baker, I'd like you and Rossi at Sunset Marina. I'll go with Brown and Reid to Gateway. Everyone, keep your phones on and call the moment you see him. He's not getting away tomorrow. I'll let you know if anything changes, but for now we all need rest."

Bianca stood in the corner as the FBI agents filed out together. They seemed so close, like a family. She liked getting small glimpses of the various personalities- Hotch was strictly business; JJ was empathic, especially when it came to children; Prentiss seemed to balance strength and kindness with ease; Rossi was a tough guy with a soft spot. She supposed her own team was similar in a way, though less connected.

Dr. Baker was brilliant, driven, and at times almost maternal. Marius was a strict no-nonsense lawyer, but he would do pro-bono work in a hearbeat; while Turner had a practical joke streak going. Kana Mogami was an experienced judge who found adjusting to New York to be a strange task- she grew up a minimalist in Kyoto, who valued candor over material things. VanBuren had traveled the globe with Amnesty International, and though she was still lovely, her experiences had left her simultaneously jaded and motivated.

They hadn't been working together near as long as the BAU unit had- Dr. Baker had been tasked with putting together a group to find Okello two years ago, and they'd been meeting off and on since. Bianca had been the last addition to the group, after months of interning in New York UN office. Even after all that time, she still felt she was trying to find her footing in the team.

As an activist, she'd done plenty of research and writing, and knew her way around human rights cases in the way that other people could name the stats for every player on a football team, or recall the lyrics to every song by their favorite band. She tried to be the optimist, making every effort to believe that their work was going to matter. Still, she knew that once the work was done they would most likely be going separate ways- Marius and Turner back to their firms, Judge Mogami to the ICC in the Netherlands, VanBuren to the Amnesty Headquarters in London. Bianca still had no idea what her next move would be- should she go on to law school, or seek a route into diplomacy?

And then there was the matter of her writing. Few people in her life knew she had published that book, and it had taken her by surprise when Dr. Reid brought it up; even more so when he complimented her poems, and wanted to know if she had penned more.

Thinking too far ahead only served to make her anxious. The future was a mystery yet to be solved, a story yet to be written, and so she packed up her bag and followed the others down the stairs.

* * *

She was twenty-five today. It was her birthday. And yet, Bianca didn't feel it was quite time to celebrate. The previous night had been restless, wondering what would happen. She didn't know what she would do if Okello got away, and at the same time she'd been tracking him for so long she wasn't sure what would happen when she finally met him face to face. She woke to a few texts saying " _Happy Birthday!"_ and shot them a quick reply, making a mental note to properly say thank-you later.

Before leaving her apartment, she had stolen a glance at the starfish story hanging on her wall, and reminded herself that it would all be worth it if she could make a difference to just that one. It was a sentiment she repeated later that night as she stood outside the Marina with the two FBI agents. It was still early spring, so the three were wrapped in coats against the evening chill. Coffee cups in hand, they watched for boats coming and going, but most just bobbed up and down from their position on the dock. Every now and then, Hotch would glance at his watch, or his phone, as if checking either would speed up the clock and deliver Okello to their hands. She noticed that he was far more stiff and serious than the agents he commanded, and wondered exactly how long it took before such a job took such a toll.

Bianca couldn't help but sneak a quick look at Dr. Reid in contrast. He was sitting cross-legged on what looked like a tall, wide box. His eyes moved back and forth across the water, and she wondered what he was thinking. She was willing to bet he knew all about tidal patterns and waves; he seemed to know everything about everything. He was brilliant- but he was also kind and gentle. Bianca had an overwhelming desire to memorize his features and turn them into words, into poems. He wasn't conventionally handsome, not like Morgan, but there was something that attracted her to him. Maybe it was the sharp jawline, or his intense eyes, or the wavy hair that fell just past his chin. Or maybe it was his honesty, or the way he seemed so very human and so very vulnerable.

All she knew for sure was that she would be content to be there, watching him, for a long time. At that moment, he turned her way, and she quickly averted her eyes as he stood up. _Did he see me?_ she panicked. _That's so embarrassing, he probably thinks I'm so weird._ But he said nothing, merely walked over to stand closer to her. He was so tall. Everyone seemed tall to her, but Reid was exceptionally so. She was sure he had to look down to say, "Um, Bianca?"

She allowed herself to look at him now, waiting for him to go on. "I just wanted to say happy birthday. It's today right?"

"It is, yeah. Thank you, Dr. Reid. I'm surprised you remembered that."

"Eidetic memory," he said. "I don't really forget anything." Bianca told herself not to get excited- he was only wishing her well because he remembered everything. Still, he didn't have to say it, and she smiled at the thought.

"Twenty-five's a big year," he said. "That's a quarter of a century."

Bianca nodded, unsure of what to say. For a brief moment, her mind wandered, coming up with nothing other than the sound of his voice, or the sincerity in his eyes, or the way his tongue darted to the corner of his mouth to wet his lips from time to time. And then the guilt kicked in, as it had developed a habit of doing lately, redirecting her thoughts back to the narrow trail of the case at hand.

"I just hope tonight means that more kids will live to see that age," she said, trying to sound professional. This was just about work, wasn't it? He was doing his job, and she was doing hers. Reid's grin fell, an act she felt a twinge of regret for, as they crossed the dock and asked Hotch what the latest news was. It was 9:45, and still there was no word on Okello. Nobody had seen him, and there was nothing to indicate he was on one of the boats that had docked.

It was strange, how the act of waiting slowed time down. Looking around the dock, Bianca wished she had brought a journal with her, just to pass the time. Instead she pulled her beanie hat further down on her ears, and bundled her coat tighter around her. Hotch was the perfect impression of a statue, who moved only to drink from his coffee cup. Reid was fidgeting, pacing around on the wooden boards. In the dark, she let her eyes drift his way once more, trying harder to commit him to memory. How tall he was, the way his long hair fell in his eyes from time to time, and even the clothes he wore. Not everyone would've called them fashionable, but she thought his sweater vests and cardigans suited him perfectly. The night of her twenty-fifth birthday was juxtaposed with an unusual contentment, and a growing impatience.

"Does he ever smile?" Bianca whispered to Reid at one point, nodding towards Agent Hotchner. Reid looked over at his boss.

"He's, uh, kind of been through a lot," he whispered back. "I mean he's always been serious. But when you see the sort of things we see… you kind of have to find some way to push the darkness away. And he deals with it in his own manner." Bianca felt sorry for asking. She'd seen the same things with her friends who had gone into social work, and in some of the older activists and diplomats. There was so much in the world that still needed light, and chasing the monsters away got to be so exhausting. It had to be the same for the FBI.

They sat at the Marina, waiting, until nearly 11, when Hotch called it a night. Bianca's heart fell, and she prayed that this wasn't the end of the search. They had to catch him, they had to find him before he could flee somewhere else, vanishing from their sights. Back at her apartment, where the day had begun, she decided to forgo any one-person birthday festivities. It was another day, passing with little fanfare or acknowledgment, lots of work, and still no sign of Okello.

As she got ready for bed, she was struck by another realization. Once they caught him- she allowed herself no room for _"if"_ \- that would be the last time she would get to see Dr. Reid. As silly as it was, she felt a little sad at that thought.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Thank you so very much for reading past the first chapter! I hope the words I've written are enjoyable enough to read. Any and all feedback would be much appreciated!**

 **I've loved building up Bianca's character, and creating the team she works in contrast with the BAU. The unit is always out fighting monsters they've never seen, whereas Dr. Baker's team is hunting down a very known subject that's made himself extremely difficult to find. Human rights and criminal justice seemed to fit hand in hand. I apologize if the first two chapters have been a little heavy on the exposition, but that seems to be the struggle with fanfic; setting up the scene and introducing these new characters into an already familar world.  
**


	3. 3) Your Call

"I can't justify keeping you here much longer, Agent Hotchner," Dr. Baker announced. The night had passed with no word of the warlord, and the next morning had been spent in varying degrees of frustration. Garcia checked paper trails and backgrounds as far as she could, still coming up with nothing to make sense of the present situation.

"At least let us stay until tonight," Hotch replied. "We have no other cases on the table for now, and there's still a chance that the man you're after is out there."

"Let's go over what we know again," Rossi suggested. "He's powerful, proud, and controlling. The plan to get him out of the country was weeks in the planning, and carefully crafting. Based on his profile, what makes the most sense? How would someone like him sneak on and off of a cargo ship?"

Turner, one of the lawyers, was shaking his head, rifling through a list of boats and itineraries and still coming up short.

"He knew on some level that we were monitoring him," Elise VanBuren suggested. "What if this whole thing was just a trick? A lie to throw us off his trail. He might still be in Sudan, we have no way of knowing."

The other lawyer, Marius, was shaking his head. "No, he was afraid of being caught. He would've left to avoid arrest. And we know someone using his alias was on that plane, his ticket was used. That's a lot of time and money to craft so many lies, and nobody to call his bluff." A collective disappointment settled over the room, and it was as though they could see their window of opportunity sliding shut, Okello safely on the other side.

But Reid was still thinking, taking in the profile, the facts… _time he didn't have… listening in on intelligence… he knew… just a trick… off the trail… proud, powerful, controlling… the ticket… call his bluff… so many lies… it's almost like a spy movie, like when a lie covers for a lie that covers for the truth…_

"That's it!" Reid declared. "It's a double bluff! If they knew we were listening, if there was some way they could guess intelligence was spying on them, they would also know we would be tracking tickets. So they tried to throw us off the trail, with the alias, right?" Everyone nodded.

"We profiled him wrong because of the information we had. Okello was said to be traveling by ship, and so the plane ticket in the wrong name would have to be an accomplice," he explained. "If we saw one of his fake names, we would assume it was his way of trying to get us to the airport so he could get in through the ports. But a guy like Okello, he has to be in control. He's narcissistic, controlling, and an egomaniac. There's no _way_ he would ride in a shipping container, and wait for someone to come let him out. He needs to be in charge."

"What are you saying?" Judge Mogami asked, one thin, severe eyebrow rising.

"What if that name was part of a double bluff? He was lying about lying, confusing us. Almost like reverse psychology. I think it really was Okello on that plane- and there's an ally coming in by boat to help him."

"If that's true, then they could already by gone by now," Rossi said cautiously.

"Not exactly. I remember the shipping schedules, there was a boat from Egypt last night that docked around 10 at Red Hook. Okello would've only recently gotten in to the country, and wouldn't be able to arrive right away. It would be to suspicious. However, they'll eventually transport the containers from Red Hook over to GMD Shipyard. It's only about five miles from there. My guess is that they'll be at GMD by tonight. Okello wouldn't want to waste any more time than needed, so he'll probably go there this evening."

"I don't get how we could've missed him," VanBuren said, the sentence coming out a little too defensively. "We were right there where the plane let out, we had special clearance."

"He could've been in disguise," Morgan offered up.

Reid considered this, then asked, "Were there any women in veils or headscarves?"

"A few," JJ admitted. "But the plane came from the Middle East, so we didn't think anything of it."

"There were two or three dressed in niqab," Jonathan Turner added. "You don't _actually_ think he would use a religious garment as a disguise, do you?"

"I wouldn't put anything past a man like this," Hotch told him. "Very little is sacred to him, if anything."

"And it wouldn't be the first time, either- in Philadelphia there was a string of armed robberies; the male thieves used Muslim garments traditionally worn by women as a disguise, knowing that alone would be enough to cause ethnic tensions, despite the fact that the suspects themselves had no relation to Islam," Reid clarified.

"I'll call NYPD and have them meet us at the shipyard," Hotch said, pulling out his phone. Both teams seemed to move in a rush, as there was a collective hurry to grab papers and files, put things into bags, and make their way back out to the street.

They traveled in three Bureau cars, lights flashing as they made their way through New York traffic. A few blocks from GMD, they silenced the sirens, and pulled to a stop. Hotch and Rossi began directing various police officers and SWAT members to different points around the shipyard.

"Dr. Baker, we'd like you and your team to remain here to help identify Okello and make the arrest on behalf of the ICC, since it's your case," Morgan said. "We don't know what we'll find in there, so we'll need all of you to put on a vest." He gestured to the trunk of one of the cars. "You'll find them in there. We're going in, but Agent Jareau will remain out here and keep you informed on the situation." Dr. Baker instructed her team to follow her, and Reid caught Bianca watching him before doing so.

"Dr. Reid," she called. "Be safe!" It echoed the sentiments Garcia often left them with, but when Bianca said it, it was different. Those words had been directed at him, and him alone.

He gave a quick wave back, before lining up beside Prentiss and Rossi, clearing his head. He could easily visualize the interior map of the shipyard, though there was no way of knowing what the maze of containers would be like. There was more ground to cover than a typical raid, but if all went according to plan, the unsubs wouldn't be anticipating the FBI.

* * *

"Please, I want to help if I can," Bianca pleaded. Ten minutes had passed since the flood of officers and agents had entered the shipyard, and she was beginning to feel anxious. Surely it would be better if they had more help covering the property?

"We appreciate the offer Miss Brown, but the best thing you can do is to wait here with Dr. Baker," JJ insisted. The young woman bit her lip, shrinking back against her mentor. She pulled at the navy colored vest they'd outfitted all of them with. If she was going to be protected, she wanted to be doing something to help.

And _he_ was in there. Dr. Reid. What would they find inside? Would Okello be there? Was he alone? She was nearly holding her breath, waiting, worrying. It had been an exhausting five days, and this was the last lead they had.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. There were distant voices, buzzing in the sound of JJs earpiece not too far away. She wanted to be inside, she wanted to know what was happening. Beside her, Dr. Baker stood just as tense.

And then the sound of gunfire. Bianca jumped, but Dr. Baker's tight grip held her in place, both of them silent. Breath held, waiting, listening for footsteps.

Finally, figures emerged from the dark of the factory. Her heart soared- there was Hotch, Rossi, Prentiss, leading two men away- and tightened- where was he? Then everything came, in a rush of relief she felt too embarrassed to acknowledge, as Morgan and Reid led out the man she would recognize anywhere. Wilson Okello.

It almost didn't feel real, watching the agents arrest the man with cruel eyes and a sour face. After all those years of tracking and surveying him, he was finally in custody. It sent a chill up her spine, being so close to someone capable of afflicting such terrible, inhumane torture. Once they were out of the building, everything happened so quickly. Okello and his men were put into a car, officers and reporters were rushing towards JJ and Rossi, Hotch was giving instructions to Dr. Baker. And there was Reid, standing only a few feet away. She moved towards him, trying to restrain herself from running.

"You're okay," she breathed.

"Of course I am," he said, with a clipped, forced laugh. "I told you we would take care of it."

"Thank you," she said, and she wasn't sure exactly what she wanted to thank him for. For capturing the warlord? For coming out safely? For standing in front of her, here and now? Maybe it was everything, maybe she was just thankful for _him._

Reid frowned, glancing away. "We should've realized the plan sooner. He could've gotten away. And, uh, it's a day late." A day late? Her birthday, she remembered. He'd made her a promise.

"I don't care about that," Bianca smiled. "You stopped him. And you're all safe. That's all I needed."

Spencer gave her an awkward grin. "Well, then, happy birthday." She reached for his hands, scratched and dirty as they were. And then, her whole arms were reaching for him, and before she could stop herself, they were embracing in the center of the chaos.

* * *

Reid was turning the page of his book when Prentiss slid into the seat across from him. "What are you reading?" she asked.

" _Maphead_ ," he replied, holding it up to show her the cover. "I managed to find a copy before we left."

Prentiss nodded. "And what about Bianca Brown's book?" Hearing her name brought the image of her to the forefront of his memory, her short hair and brown eyes, her optimistic writing, the way her small frame had collided with his own tall and lanky body.

"I finished it last night. It was… good." Good was an understatement, but for some reason he wanted to keep the words to himself, just one simple, private secret.

"And what about Bianca?" she ventured.

Reid's mouth was pressed into a thin line, the way it sometimes did when he was confused. "What-" he paused for a second, swallowing hard and wetting his lips-"What about her?"

"Oh, come on, Reid. Everyone saw you two at the shipyard. The way she was looking at you. The way _you_ were looking at _her._ The way you hugged her? I think there's something there."

"There's nothing there!" he said, too quickly. "And, and even if there was, there couldn't be." He'd been here before, with Lila Archer. Those feelings were a merely a side effect of working a case, he got to be someone's hero for a little while, and when that was over, so were those feelings. Lila had said she'd call, and at first she did, but they lived on opposite coasts, and she was famous and he wasn't. It hadn't taken long to lose touch.

"Why not?" Emily asked.

"Well, for one, it's inappropriate- we were on a case, and it's supposed to be strictly professional-"

"But she also wasn't a victim. She was part of a team we were working with," Emily countered, and he could tell she was gearing up for a debate.

"And she's younger than I am! I mean, I'm almost thirty, and she just turned twenty-five. That's half a decade." He knew that was a poor excuse, but he was looking for a reason, any reason to avoid talking about her, that girl with warm eyes, who wrote poetry and had hugged him in the commotion of the shipyard as though there was no one else in the world she so badly wanted to see.

"Which isn't that much, really."

Reid gave Prentiss a hard look, trying to convey to her that whatever she was implying wasn't happening. He was feeling more and more uncomfortable as the conversation went on. "Emily, there's no chance of something happening. There's too many variables that don't work. The distance, the age, the professional aspect. And there's things I've seen-and things I've done- that I can't… I couldn't ask someone her age to…" he trailed off, and Prentiss followed his gaze down to his arm, where beneath layers of sweater and shirt she knew small scars remained from his short-lived habit.

"Maybe that's not your call," she said softly.

"Look, I was close to someone on a case once before, and it didn't work out."

"Kid, she's also not a movie star living on the opposite coast, who will end up on the covers of tabloids in a few months with some other guy." Neither of them had realized that Morgan was awake and listening in on their conversation, now smirking at the team's youngest member.

Prentiss looked back and forth between the two men, waiting for one of them to explain what Morgan meant, but Reid just glanced away, his ears red with embarrassment.

"Do you have her number?" Morgan asked. Reid's eyes flickered over at Morgan, then Prentiss, and then all-too-hastily went back to his book. Morgan and Emily just laughed.

* * *

 _"No matter what people tell you, words and ideas can change the world." - Robin Williams, Dead Poets Society_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I am extremely grateful to anyone and everyone who's read this far.**

 **This is a story I'd been itching to write for a while, and I've spent hours going back over and revising it, wondering if the things I'm writing are really of any interest to other folks out there. If so, then thank you! I hope you've enjoyed it thus far. Reviews- comments, questions, constructive criticism, etc- are always much appreciated.  
**


	4. 4) Voices Across Distance

_"Kindness in words creates confidence. Kindness in thinking creates profoundness. Kindness in giving creates love." – Lao Tzu_

* * *

"Reid," said the voice on the other end of the phone, in what Bianca assumed was supposed to be a formal-sounding tone.

"Hi, um Dr. Reid? This is Bianca Brown. From New York?" Already she regretted calling him. He probably didn't even remember her. It was probably silly. Before she could panic and hang up, she heard him respond.

"Bianca, hi! I was actually uh, thinking about calling you. But I guess you beat me to it." He actually sounded happy to hear from her.

She fiddled the sleeve of her sweater, still unable to shake the nervous fluttering feeling in her chest. "Yeah, I… I really enjoyed talking to you when your team was helping out up here."

"How did that turn out by the way?" Reid asked eagerly.

"Pretty great! Kana- er, Judge Mogami and Dr. Baker escorted him to the Netherlands. His trial with the ICC is going to be starting soon, but after apprehending him and his accomplice, the UN has been able to track and arrest several more of his generals. That wouldn't have happened without the BAU."

"I just wish there was more we could do. Knowing that there's still so many groups like that, who get away with forcing children into armies like that so easily…" He trailed off, and Bianca thought that it must be so similar, the work he did. Catching one unsub, and knowing that there were more out there, doing the same thing, cases that were still waiting for the team to solve the next week.

She tried to push the thought away. Smiling to herself, she said, "It made a difference to that one."

"Huh?"

"That story, about the starfish. What you did, it made a difference to the kids that we saved this time. And… it made a difference to me."

There was a short pause on the other line, and Bianca worried she'd said something wrong. Then- "I think I might just need to put that up on my wall too." She couldn't help but laugh. "You know, I read your poems- the whole book," he went on, and it was her turn to fall quiet. "They were really beautiful."

She always felt unprepared when people brought that up. What was she supposed to say? She was always afraid of sounding proud, but that was exactly what she felt when he called her words beautiful. "Oh gosh. Um, thanks. It still feels weird to think that people want to buy my book, and read what I write. But I'm glad you liked it, Dr. Reid."

"Oh, call me Spencer. Please."

"Spencer," she repeated, trying out the sound of it. She liked the way it rolled off her lips. She liked it very much.

* * *

He'd never really seen the appeal of phone calls before. Sure, Reid had a cell phone for his job because it was convenient. He needed to be able to communicate with his team, and anyone else who might need to be notified during a case. They spent so much time together in person, it hardly seemed necessary to call when they weren't. The only other human being he communicated that often with was his mother, and he always wrote her letters. So maybe the reason he'd never seen the appeal was because he'd never really had anyone to call before.

He did now.

Phone calls were the fastest, easiest way to talk to Bianca. It was how they got to know each other, exchanging so many of the little things that most people typically did in person.

It was how she knew that he was from Nevada, he went to college at Caltech (where he got all of his degrees), he was close to his mom, and was afraid at the dark.

It was how he learned that she was from Ohio, she went to school at Loyola Chicago and then Stanford, she wasn't close with either of her parents, and she was scared of thunderstorms (and the dark).

They traded abridged childhood stories and favorite things (his: purple, Halloween, Beethoven, coffee with lots of sugar, _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ , Edgar Allen Poe, and math; hers: blue, New Year's, Fleetwood Mac, tea with lots of vanilla, _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , Billy Collins, and French).

He was always traveling for his job, she was always wanting to travel. To relax he did calculus and read long books, she read books and went for long runs (he couldn't fathom why people found exercise to be relaxing).

Sometimes on the weekend, Bianca would call him while she sat at a coffee shop in New York, and Reid would walk to the Starbucks down the block, wondering what it would be like to sit talking over coffee in the same place, and not the roughly 231 miles between his table and wherever she sat at Pennylane Coffee.

There were so many little things to discover, every time they talked it was like being handed different puzzle pieces and wondering where they came from and what they would turn out to mean. The fact that he hated horses and the beach or that she always took the stairs had never seemed important before. What once felt like trivia now felt like the Theory of Relativity, and like gravity there was some great force pulling him in, leaving him wanting to know more and more.

What made her laugh? What made her cry? And when had the simple act of making a phone call become so vital?

* * *

"Bianca," Dr. Baker repeated. Bianca looked up from her journal, startled out of her thoughts. "You seem distracted."

The young woman blushed, caught red-handed. She had been meeting with her mentor to review old cases, and discuss possibilities for Bianca's next career move now that the team tasked with finding Wilson Okello was no longer needed. Dr. Baker gestured at the journal. "Let me see," she said. With a sigh, Bianca pushed it across the table, as the older woman read the latest page she'd been working on.

 _And we stand on separate shores,_

 _casting nets into the sea with the same hands,  
searching for more and more  
praying that we are ourselves enough._

 _And it would be enough  
to fish for starlight beside you  
turning mourning into morning  
to matter to one  
to you  
would be enough._

Dr. Baker regarded Bianca, her dark eyes peering at her through rounded glasses. "You're writing more these days," she remarked. "I've missed reading your poems."

"It's nothing," Bianca shrugged. "I mean, I love writing. But I want to do more than just that. I want to keep working in this field."

"Even if it means traveling more?" Bianca smiled, and the doctor corrected herself. "Of course, you love to travel. But depending on what you want to do from here, you could find yourself living in places very far from those you're close to. Are you ready for that?"

"I've always been ready. You know I'm not particularly close to my family. I'm ready to go anywhere, as long as I'm doing something that matters." Bianca was adamant, willing Dr. Baker to understand.

"Well, I think that considering another book might be a good way to continue to finance future endeavors, or further studies if you want to go that route. But I think you should also look into pursing this particular poem." Bianca tilted her head, confused by the words, but Dr. Baker smiled kindly. "It's been nearly four months, yes? Since he was here? How often do you two talk?" She tapped the page of the journal with a dark finger.

Was she that easy to read? It had taken her almost a week to gather the courage to call him the first time. After that, he called her a week and a half later. Calls became emails, text messages, and even a letter or two. It was never consistent, and not always long, but it still made her heart jump to see a message with his name on it. "It kind of depends," Bianca told her. "But we're not seeing each other or anything."

The doctor pulled out a sheet of paper from her briefcase. "I suspected there was something there between you and that young man. You know, Quantico and DC are basically one and the same. And there's a lot of activist work to be done in the Capitol. It would be great for boosting your resume, and there's plenty of nearby law schools should you choose to go that route. And of course, you could see each other on… _the same shore_ , as I believe you said."

That night Bianca sat on her bed, her laptop propped up on a pillow, the browser open to a list of openings in DC. Could she really move there? Outside her window, New York City twinkled as bright as usual. And yet, there was something she'd found comforting in those lights that had been dimming lately. Bianca used to watch them glow, imagining all of the people living all of their lives beneath those lights. But the person she most wanted to see was far away from any of them.

What would it mean to be that close to him? He had a job still, so they wouldn't see each other every day. But certainly that possibility wound be much more real if she didn't live so far away. And Dr. Baker was right, Washington DC was a perfect place to continue activist work, while pursuing a higher degree. She could study psychology, or human rights law. Maybe get her own PhD.

That thought took her mind right back to Spencer. Closing the miles between them meant an opportunity to study _him_. The few days they'd spent together were brief- once he'd flown up to New York for a weekend, staying in the hotel down the block and giving them chance to get to know each other better in person. On two other occasions, they had each made a trip to the other's respective city for the day, riding the train for nearly three hours both ways. Both of those days had been so packed with activity- talking for hours at a café, venturing through parks and libraries, taking a trip to a museum- that they reminded her of when families visited amusement parks and were determined to stay the whole day in order to get their money's worth.

Seeing him on a regular basis would be different. She'd get to see his apartment, visit his favorite places with him. She'd see him on good days and bad days. What did it look like when he was mad? Did he ever cry reading a book, or watching a movie? They'd never gone to a movie together before. She wanted to know what it was like to sit beside him without knowing he'd have to leave in a few hours. She wanted to know everything about him. There was something else that had crossed her mind. They'd held hands a number of times, and had said both hello and good-bye with a hug, but the only kiss she'd ever given him was on the cheek; the last time she'd seen him, when she was feeling particularly brave.

She wanted to be able to kiss him.

Smiling at the image on her phone, a picture of the two of them on the steps on the New York Public Library, she wondered if she could answer that question this weekend, when she next saw him. A chance for answers, and a chance for questions, she decided with one last glance at list of DC jobs.

* * *

"How do you feel about Georgia?" JJ asked, sliding on to the desks between Reid and Morgan.

"Actually, I was thinking about traveling north for the weekend," Reid said.

"Well, you'd better repack your bags. We've got a case in Atlanta. They want us there by this evening. Several sets of missing twins, always female, and we've got a body now." She tossed down file folders in front of them as Reid frowned.

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "What's this? Do you actually have plans for once, kid?" Prentiss and JJ both looked over their shoulders, intrigued.

He considered his options. 1: Lie to a group of FBI profilers, and pray they choose not to analyze his behavior too closely (that seemed unlikely, Morgan was too invested in this _not_ to tease him); 2: Say nothing and attempt to change the subject by asking about the case (no, that would be an obvious tell); or 3: Tell the truth and play it off like it's no big deal.

"I- I was just thinking of going to New York. You know, I've really never had a chance to see the place, other than when we're working on a case." He was nervous, he was definitely too nervous. Maybe it would still work.

"Didn't you visit New York City two months ago?" JJ asked. Shoot, he'd forgotten about that conversation. How did she even remember that? Usually only he remembered things like that.

Before Reid had a chance to respond, Morgan was reaching across the desk to grab his phone. "Someone has a message from a miss Bianca Brown," he read aloud to the group. Smirks played on the lips of his fellow agents, and Reid wished he could just sink into the floor. They'd teased him for not talking to girls, and now they were about to tease him for talking one. Couldn't he catch a break?

"Bianca Brown," Morgan said again. "Isn't she that girl from the UN case? The short one?" Well, that was one way to describe her. Short, thoughtful, smart, generous. He struggled to come up with an adjective in the English language to describe exactly how he thought of her; none carried a connotation that seemed to fit just right. There wasn't even an English term for that search, he had to borrow from the French for _le mot juste_ , the exact perfect word.

"I thought that's why you went to NYC," JJ said, a hint of triumph in her voice.

"An FBI profiler dating a human rights activist," Prentiss mused. "Are you two trying to save the world together or something?"

"I never said we were dating!" Reid argued. But what else was he supposed to call the time they spent together? With the exception of his mother and his coworkers, he'd never been around a girl so much. And the way he felt about her, well that was different too. At some point those feelings had moved from acquaintanceship to friendship, and eventually transcended that definition as well. Bianca stuck in his mind long after they'd parted ways. He could recall facts on cue, but she would pop up in his thoughts without reason, the memory of her laugh or of the way he felt lighter, more buoyant, around her stealing his focus from whatever he was doing at the moment. Not that he minded all that much.

The last time he saw her, she'd even kissed his cheek. It was just before she boarded her train back up north, when she stood on her toes and he suddenly found her lips pressed to the side of his face. Reid hardly had a chance to react before she hopped from the platform to the train, turning to wave at him before disappearing through the door with cheeks nearly as red as his own.

He liked her. He _really_ liked her. She understood, on some level, the darkness his job demanded he deal with, and his time with her was a blessed spot of light between cases.

"You didn't have to say it," Morgan said. "It's not that hard to tell. You know, I never thought I'd see the day. I actually feel bad we're dragging you away on a case. Hope that ticket wasn't too expensive."

"At least you don't have fly coach," Prentiss offered, half-heartedly.

Reid sighed, taking his phone back from Morgan. He wasn't looking forward to calling Bianca and cancelling on such short notice. And he wasn't looking forward to waiting that much longer to be able to see her again. He missed the way she smiled at him, as if what he had just said was the smartest thing in the world; he missed searching a sidewalk to find her, knowing her arms would wrap around him once he did; the way he finally felt an eidetic memory was more good than bad because he could hold on to every single thing she said to him.

Hearing her voice, having a few more words from her to file away, was a small consolation.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **The time is the story will be more divided from this point forward. In New York, it was easy to write it like a case, jumping from one important point in the case to the next. With Spencer and Bianca in different cities, I've been playing around with time a little more in order avoid writing long one-day scenes that serve only as a filler.**

 **I'm quite fond of words, especially those untranslatable words of foreign origin, and will jump at any chance to incorporate them when English fails me. "Le mot juste" is a term that was coined by French novelist Gustave Flaubert, a notoriously perfectionist writer. It refers to the word all authors will understand, that word that conveys exactly what you mean, not the close-enough-synonym we too often have to settle for.**

 **I'm so thankful to everyone reading this fic. I would love to hear any feedback back you have- comments, questions, suggestions, constructive criticism, etc are all greatly appreciated!**


	5. 5) Closer

His phone was buzzing. Reid was pouring over stacks of paperwork, hoping to finish the stacks before he ran out of coffee.

Was it JJ again? They had just gotten back from a case, and even he was starting to get tired from the constant merry-go-round of cases. In the past weeks they'd had barely hours between trips. He glanced at the name on the phone, and smiled as he answered.

"Hey," he said. "How are you?"

"I'm good," Bianca answered from the other line. "Are you still working?"

"Yeah," Reid said, leaning back in his chair. "We just got back from a case. I'm finishing up on paperwork before I head out."

"Hmm… how much paperwork exactly?"

Reid flipped through the stack. "I don't know, might take me five or ten minutes?" He glanced at the clock. It was nearly 5:30, it would be getting dark soon. "Why?"

"Oh, well, I was just hoping to talk to you. If you're busy, I can wait until then. You read fast anyways." She bid him farewell, with a promise of talking to him soon, and Reid got back to flying through the papers.

It was easy, relaxing, filling in blanks and checking reports. He wasn't sure how much time had passed until Morgan sat down on the corner of his desk. "Hey, pretty boy. You've done enough. You oughta head out."

"I'm fine," Reid insisted. He knew he could finish faster than the rest of the team; that was why they often asked him to lend a hand when they felt swamped. Besides, they were far more likely to have plans for an evening, whereas he typically returned home to more books.

"No, really," Morgan insisted. "I've got this. You go home, okay?" Confused, Reid relented, wondering if this was part of some sort of practical joke, or if Morgan was trying to avoid something and paperwork was an easy excuse.

Either way, he collected his things into his messenger bag and made his way to the elevator. He'd go back to his apartment, he told himself, and make dinner first. He wanted to be awake to call Bianca, and at the moment he felt rather dependent on his cup of coffee.

When he pushed open the doors of the building, his mind was lost in thought, deciding what to cook, wondering how crowded the metro was, reviewing the details of the case in Atlanta. A serial killer with a thing for twins, abducting the set at the same time, and pitting them against each other to decide who would die first. He was glad they'd caught him before another pair of sisters went missing. Only one thing could jolt him back to the present.

"Spencer!" a voice called. He nearly did a double take, shocked to see Bianca walking towards him. Was he really that tired? But no, she was real, standing before him- black blouse, a red skirt, tights, and shiny red flats- everything he could identify her by made her presence seem so much more _there_ and so much more incredulous.

"Bianca! What- what are you doing here?" he asked. It was a pleasant surprise, seeing her there before him. Seeing his… well, he didn't know exactly what to call her. Was she his girlfriend? They'd never defined what they were explicit terms. Between their jobs and the distance, they rarely had a chance to see each other face-to-face, save for Skype. It was nice to see her in person, to be able to hold her hand when she reached towards him, to see her smile without looking through a screen.

"I thought I'd surprise you on your way home from work," she said, as if that was the most natural thing in the world for her to be doing.

"Well, consider me thoroughly surprised. Are you here for the weekend?" Neither of them had ever been able to get more than a few days at a time to visit the other, and there never seemed to be enough time when they did.

Bianca beamed up at him, her thumbs rubbing circles on his palms. "Actually, no. That's why I wanted to see you here. I'm still doing a lot of activist work, and I actually just took a new job- in DC." She grinned at him in delight, and he could hardly believe it. How long had she been keeping that secret?

"So you- you live here now?"

"Yup, it's official! I still have some unpacking to do, but I moved into my apartment two days ago. So I don't have to wait weeks and weeks to see you. I mean, I was looking for a new job anyways, and I figured if I was here I'd get to see you, but that's not the only-" she paused, shaking her head. "Anyways, I'm here. And I'm here to stay, for quite a while, at least." Her eyes searched his face, curious. "Is that okay?"

Spencer didn't need to say anything. He did what he'd been wanting to do for some time, and stooped down to kiss her. Bianca gave a sound of surprise, and he worried she would pull away, but she returned the kiss, leaning in to him. Her lips were soft and he kissed her slowly, months of longing passing between them. The sudden buzzing of his phone in his back pocket drew his attention away. It wasn't a call this time, but a text from Morgan.

 _You're welcome._

* * *

Their voices no longer had to travel over distances to reach other. One phone call didn't have to be a whole conversation, so it became an invitation instead. He invited her to meet him for coffee. And though he knew she no longer lived over 200 miles away, it still surprised him to see her hurrying down the sidewalk just fifteen minutes later.

Reid stood from his chair when he saw her, and she gave him a grin as she quickened her pace. "Hey," she said. "You know, I'm surprised you suggested Starbucks."

"Why is that surprising?" he asked. "It's the closest to my apartment."

Bianca shrugged. "I guess I thought you'd be more of a coffee snob."

"Well, five years of bad office coffee has really lowered my expectations," he laughed. The inside of the shop was much cooler than the July air, but sitting outside gave them a chance to people-watch and so back out they went, with drinks in hand.

"Do you ever see any politicians in the city?" Bianca asked, twirling her straw.

"None I would recognize," Reid answered. "Did you ever run into celebrities in NYC?"

"I met Taylor Swift in Central Park one time."

"Is she related to Jonathan Swift?"

Her mouth fell open. "Are you serious? You don't know who Taylor Swift is?" He tried to explain that pop culture wasn't his area of expertise. He knew Russian and advanced chemistry, but things like the Twilight Series, Oscar nominees- and now, country singers, apparently- were foreign. That prompted a series of excited questions- Friends? John Hughes? The Beatles? Beyoncé? (the answers were No, No, Yes, and Vaguely).

They sat on the coffee shop patio, watching tourists and businessmen and elderly couples moving past at different paces. How was such a small District so full of people? When he sat out here alone, it was so easy to profile each person as they passed by, deciding who they were and where they were going and why. Those were the days when he had nothing else to distract his mind, and it was easy to fall into work habits he tried to avoid when he wasn't actually working.

Reid wasn't alone today, though. Bianca was sitting across from him, enraptured with the crowds. She looked fascinated, one hand on her coffee and the other resting on the table as she followed the trail of passing people. He wondered if he could reach out and put his own hand in hers, if she would mind. She hadn't seemed to mind when he kissed her outside of the FBI office. For some reason, everything felt different now that she was here to stay. With a start, he realized he could hold her hand whenever he wanted to now- he didn't have to wait weeks to see her or touch her. It only took one phone call.

Almost on cue, she turned to beam up at him. "This is different isn't it? Being so close?"

"Relationships aren't really my area of expertise," he admitted.

"Thank goodness. Me either. I mean, I went on dates in college, but I never really _dated_ anyone- not for very long. It didn't really help that I looked like I was fifteen, and spent more writing than I did going to parties."

"Try actually being fifteen and in college." While his classmates were out drinking on the weekends, he couldn't even drive a car legally.

Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh gosh, I keep forgetting that! I still can't believe you were only twelve when you started school. When you were getting your first degree, I was still learning about food chains and reading _Matilda_."

"Now that's a name I recognize."

The kernel of fear that had resided in chest that morning was dissipating with every minute. Reid had worried that it would be awkward; that maybe whatever it was they had was only viable because they saw each other so little. Only a table length away, Bianca still laughed at his jokes, still listened to his over-excited rambling, still looked at him like he was the only person she could see.

He would've been content to sit with her in the DC heat for hours- but Reid didn't have hours. What he had was a phone calling him in to the BAU.

"I'm so sorry, really, I am," he apologized, standing hastily. "I thought today was going to be a day off."

"It's okay," Bianca assured him. She rose from her own chair to give him a quick kiss, a peck on the lips lasting only a heartbeat. "I'll still be here when you get back, remember?" She squeezed his hand once before letting go. "Just be safe." And just like that, he left, and joined the migration of people coming and going, increasing the distance between them once more.

* * *

DC was different from NYC. New York was eclectic, eccentric, and always in a rush. People and taxis crowded every inch of space unoccupied by towering buildings, and they took particular pride in their pizza, their coffee, and their place as the first capital of the United States. Washington was polished, political, and full of important-looking white buildings. Monuments and museums littered the orderly streets, and their pride was invested in their icons, their arts, and their place as the current capital of the United States.

Bianca walked the streets with a notebook in hand, mapping out all the important places she needed to go. Routes to work, various metro stations, various hospitals and post offices. With a week before her job began, she decided to pass the time exploring her new home. She climbed to top of the Washington Monument, paid a visit to the Holocaust Memorial Museum, and had a picnic for one in the National Arboretum. An Episcopalian by birth, she'd always admired the beauty of Catholic masses held at Loyola; so she attended a Sunday sermon at the National Cathedral, and a Wednesday mass at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception (the latter was in desperate need of a shorter name).

She was astounded at the sheer size and scope of galleries and institutions housed in the tiny District. There was a building for everything from African art, to the US Postal Service, to a library devoted exclusively to Shakespeare. She decided to wait for Spencer to return before venturing through the Smithsonian, Spy, and Crime Museums, respectively; trusting that he'd have a thorough supply of interesting facts not included on any exhibit placard. She did however, sign up for an _Assassinations in the Capital Walking Tour_ on a particularly boring Tuesday.

Her own personal walking tour was a quest for the best coffee in DC, which took her to places with names like Filter Coffeehouse, Baked and Wired, and Sidamo. Swing's Coffee Roasters came out on the top of her list, winning her over with its promise of fair trade and proximity to both the World Bank and her apartment.

Bianca spent her evenings unpacking and trying to make her apartment look like her own. There were books to be shelved, mugs to be set in the cupboard, and miscellaneous decorations that she still had to decide what to do with. It felt empty still, devoid of memories that made it familiar to her. Had she made the right choice? In New York she was finally settled in, and though her days revolved primarily around her work, she still had a group of friends she could count on to stop by for a movie night or to go out with for Sunday morning brunch. Bianca scrolled through her phone, toying with the idea of calling them just to avoid feeling lonely. Maggie would no doubt have outlandish tales from whatever her weekly adventures been, and she knew Nathaniel would gladly bombard her with inquiries about Washington, and Sarah-Jean was always grateful to have someone to vent to after an exhausting day as a social worker in the Bronx.

With a twinge of indignation she realized it had been eight days since she had moved cities, and she hadn't heard a word from her family. Most parents would've called to check in, asked if she liked it there, if she was living in a good neighborhood. Others would've asked to come visit or offered to help move in, but the closest Bianca got was her mother "liking" the Facebook post announcing she'd arrived in DC. She was disappointed, but after twenty-five years, she'd learned not to be surprised. She supposed her eagerness to leave home hadn't helped- first to Chicago, then to California; and she'd come home only when she had to. They had spent a lifetime at odds with each other, and figured that it was a little late in the game to expect that to change. She closed out her contact list, and penned a quick email to Dr. Baker instead.

Outside her window, an entirely different set of lights twinkled, lighting up different buildings inhabited by different strangers. "List of people I know in Washington," she said aloud to herself, counting the names off on her fingers. "Louise Colfer." The pleasant, if chattery, woman she'd gotten to know on the walking tour of assassinations. "Mr. Haverton." The doorman of her building. "Ivy the Barista." The girl with hot pink hair who she'd run into three times at Swing's. "Dr. Spencer Reid." FBI agent, certified genius, expert hand-holder, and – possibly – boyfriend.

"We'll work on that," she promised the wall calendar. Rows of squares were lined up beneath July's image of three nuns dancing in the ocean ( _Nuns Having Fun_ , the calendar Maggie had given her as a gag gift the past Christmas), and beside tomorrow's date were the words in red pen she added two weeks ago: _job starts today!_

* * *

Investigating a terror plot was an oddly nice change of pace from the endless case files full of serial murders. Reid was good at what he did, but one could only see so many dead bodies at a time. What did that say about their job, if chasing the trail of underground cell to prevent the release of a chemical weapon was relaxing?

Such a case had its own downfalls- one of them being the lead pipe he'd been hit with. He was lucky the unsub had narrowly missed hitting his knee. He didn't think he was ready to be back on crutches. Still, he could feel the spot on his upper thigh were he was certain a large bruise was forming. Almost without thinking, he rested his hand over the spot.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Morgan asked, nodding towards his leg. "It looked like you were hit pretty hard."

"I'm fine," Reid insisted. "Really, I am. The guy wasn't all that strong. No broken bones or anything."

His fellow agent looked at him skeptically. "You know, you could take something if it's bothering you."

Spencer folded and unfolded his hands, feeling awkward. "I can't though." He knew Morgan didn't mean anything by it. It was easy to forget when you weren't the one who went through it. No, that wasn't true. His team knew, they remembered. It was more that they couldn't really understand what it meant to be a recovering addict. All the little nuances, the things that people who'd never been in a 12-step program rarely knew. Like how many recovering alcoholics avoided Listerine mouthwash, or how recovering narcotic addicts stayed away from pain medicine.

Reid shifted in his seat as an uncomfortable blanket of quiet settled over them.

"Does she know?" Morgan asked finally, breaking the silence.

Reid looked up, bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"That girl you're seeing. Have you told her about that?"

"No," he said quietly. The notion had occurred to him, but he hardly knew how to bring it up or what to say. It had taken him months to say anything at all when he needed help, and even then he hadn't known how to explain it to Gideon. "I don't know if I need to, I guess."

"Everybody has secrets, Reid. I think if you're lucky enough to have someone in your life who wants to listen, you should tell them."

"What about you? You didn't tell us what happened to you until nearly got charged for three murders!" Reid remembered their time in Chicago; they'd all been confused, he'd stood in Morgan's childhood home eating cake, and Morgan had chosen escaping from an interrogation room over opening up to Hotch.

"Exactly. And it didn't go over well, which is why I'm telling you this."

"I think you should," Hotch chimed in. Reid felt suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation. Did everyone have to know about his problem? Was everyone going to judge his personal life? He wanted some things to be his.

"Obviously, the choice is yours," Hotch said. "But speaking from experience, it's best to put things like that out in the open. If this girl means something to you, and you're not honest with her, you'll both get hurt down the line."

Reid crossed his arms, his hand covering the crook of his elbow as if he could cover up the scarred track marks, and erase them for good. Outside his window, the evening sun was setting over Virginia. He would have to call her.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **To those of you who may not know, Jonathan Swift was an Irish writer whose piece "A Modest Proposal" became an iconic example of deadpan, ironic satire. In it, he suggests that the poor of Ireland can ease their economic troubles and make themselves useful by selling their children as food for the rich folk of Britain. Needless to say, the proposal is anything _but_ "modest."**

 **And yes, you really can take an "Assassinations in the Capital Walking Tour" in DC. Since the Crime Museum is now closed, the tour is currently run through the National Law Enforcement Museum.**

 **Thank you to everyone who's followed (Elvira-baba, Miss-Fantomette, Mossnose173, Smitty Jonson, abbzmay, ahowell1993, alleycat023, mayasquared, ripon, Silent Song of Shadows, and sonnetStar) and favorited (Awesome-Sauce25, IceSnowQueen, Smitty Jonson, ahowell1993, hrodenhaver, and readermind) this story thus far! And of course, thank you to the many who've been reading it. It means a lot to me, and I hope I'll continue writing a story worth reading. If you have any comments/questions/suggestions, I would love to hear them!  
**

 **And an extra thanks to ripon for writing a review- thank you so much for the feedback! And yes, in the states we do call characters who are too perfect/clever/beautiful/etc Mary Sues. Is that what most countries call them? Is it a universal fandom term? I wonder...**

 **I'm a teensy bit pleased I managed to get this chapter posted on MGG's birthday.**


	6. 6) Unpublished

The weekend after Bianca had finally finished unpacking, Spencer called to ask if he could stop by. She agreed, frantically trying to make sure her apartment looked clean, free of wads of used packing tape and stray pieces of cardboard before he arrived.

He greeted her with a small smile. "Can I come in?"

She stepped aside to let him through the doorway. "Are you limping?"

"It's nothing," he assured her. "I just got hit on a case, that's all."

Her eyes widened. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"Um, did I ever tell you about the time I was on crutches?" Bianca shook her head. "Well, I kind of got shot in the leg once. It was almost a year ago, but it still bothers me sometimes. While I was out on this last case, one of the unsubs took a swing at me with a lead pipe. It only left a bruise, but it didn't really help with the whole leg thing."

"Spencer, why didn't you say something sooner? You should be sitting down!" She led him over the living room sofa with persistence. He winced as he sat, his fingers rubbed a spot on his thigh absent-mindedly, and she wondered just how bad it really was. "Do you want something for that?" She darted over to the kitchen cupboard. The ice packs Bianca owned were only size of the miniature Tupperware containers she packed in her lunch. She considered putting ice in a Ziploc bag, but she hadn't gotten around to buying any yet. That left the small medicine cabinet in the bathroom. "I've got Advil or Tylenol?" she offered, already making her way to the bathroom.

"No!" he called out, just a little too loudly. "No. I don't want anything. I'm okay."

She wasn't so sure. He looked anxious, and she suspected that there was more on his mind than just his leg. She stepped closer to the sofa. "Is something wrong?" There was a long pause as he fidgeted on the sofa.

"Bianca, we need to talk," he said finally. She frowned, waiting for him to go on. "It's just, um, now that we're in the same city, things feel… more serious. More real, I guess. And I know we've talked so many times, but we haven't- we haven't talked about…"

"About hard to talk about things?" she offered. "Skeleton in the closet things?" He winced, and she realized that his experience with that phrase was probably quite literal.

"Yeah. Those things. I just, there are things that I want you to know, because I want you to know what you're getting into, before things go farther. Does that make sense?" His expression seemed somber, almost grim. Worry lodged in her throat, wondering it was that had carried him to her apartment with such a sense of resolve and solemnity.

"Of course. If you want, I can make some coffee or tea or something before we talk?" Coffee would be great, he told her, and a few minutes later they were sitting cross-legged on the sofa across from each other with mugs in hand. Spencer looked as though he was trying to decide where to begin.

"Why don't we start with family," she suggested. "That's usually where people begin when they do these sorts of things."

"You say that like it's normal," Reid said.

Bianca shrugged. "At my college, we had retreats like this. The idea was to talk about the things you normally kept hidden. It helped to foster connections, and it taught us that it was okay to be vulnerable." Retreats were among of her fondest memories at school, but she could imagine that the idea would be uncomfortable to most people. It was hard to talk about those things, and she wondered how many conversations like this Spencer had had before. "If you want, I can start."

He nodded, looking relieved at the opportunity to ponder his words more carefully, and listened as Bianca began. "Well, you know I'm not exactly close with my parents. I'm not close with any of my family really. I have a younger brother, so we were a family of four. For as long as I can remember, I've felt distant. You know, home is supposed to be a place where you feel welcome, and mine just wasn't that way."

Reid's face became concerned, and she tried to clarify. "There wasn't any abuse, or anything like that. It was just… it was a loveless sort of environment. My parents married young, and I think as they grew older they grew apart. They stayed together though, and in the end it just made both of them more unhappy. They cared about things that weren't people more than people- for my father, it was work. For my mother, it was her reputation. Add to that a son who was always angry, and our house was just… cold. I never really felt at home there. I tried to meet impossible expectations, thinking that maybe if I was smart enough or athletic enough or nice enough, they'd be proud of me, and our family would feel like a family. It never did though. When I was in high school, they diagnosed my brother with Oppositional Defiance Disorder- I'm sure you know what that means."

Spencer nodded. "Your brother, is he-"

"A sociopath? I don't think I can answer that objectively. And I moved out before he turned 18, so I don't know if my parents ever had him tested for Antisocial Personality Disorder. They don't really talk about things like that. ODD is the only diagnosis I remember. But explaining it didn't fix it, you know? Everything felt so unpredictable at that time, and I felt so alone, and those feelings scared me."

Bianca exhaled deeply. She'd told these stories so many times, in so many ways. During retreats, feeling a weight lifted from her chest. To friends, who were close enough to ask the questions that mattered. In short, casual tones with people who needed certain explanations for certain things. She'd learned that you could unearth those painful things, but that didn't make those conversations any less difficult. The words still felt shameful sometimes, still felt scary as you waited to see if the person listening would run from them. "So, I was a teenage perfectionist with a volatile home life, and nobody I felt I could talk to about it. I was looking for something I could control. I already ran cross-country, and it started that way. I ate healthier to get more in shape. I trained harder. But eating healthier became eating less, and training for cross-country became a mandate of daily exercise. In my junior year, a teacher got worried, and I finally opened up. That was the year I learned there was a word for the way I felt: depression. And there was a for what I did, too."

"Anorexia," he interjected.

She nodded. "The two sort of went hand in hand. But therapy and antidepressants are wonderful things. I mean, it's not like they're completely gone- they're things I'll probably always need to be careful about. But I've been careful, and though there have been times I slipped up, I'm still here. I'm a lot better." She smiled, trying to show him how much better. "My family is… well, just sort of there. But I'd like to think family is more who you love, and not who you're related to. So," she said finally. "Is that what you meant by difficult stuff?"

Bianca tried to sound nonchalant, tried to sound as though talking about those things didn't make her throat tighten or her chest hurt. This was the digging out of things, the laying it all on the table. There would be time to analyze and delve deep into these things, but now was the time to start with the simplest explanations. Reid opened his mouth slowly, but before he could speak, she added, "Don't respond to what I said right now, okay? First, just say what you need to say."

"That's how these things work?" he asked.

"Sometimes, yeah," she said. "Otherwise there would never be enough time for everyone to share."

She could almost see the gears shifting in his mind, compartmentalizing the words for later conversation before deciding where to start with his own explanation.

"Okay," Spencer said finally. "Family. I know you know that my dad left, and it was just me and my mom, and my mom still lives in Las Vegas. But my dad, he left because he didn't know how to deal with my mother anymore. He knew something was wrong, but instead- instead of dealing with it, he just left. I was nine. My mom was a good parent; she looked out for me and encouraged me and read me stories. But she was sick, I could tell. She would forget things, she'd worry about things that weren't really happening. The hardest thing I ever had to do was getting her help." He licked his lips, the words struggling to get past the lump in his throat. "She has schizophrenia. And she lives in Las Vegas, but she lives in a mental institution there. She's better now that she's there. But I know you studied psychology, and so you know what schizophrenia means and you know that it's genetic. And she's my mom so… so I don't know if someday…" he trailed off, and Bianca gripped his hand. She knew the feeling, worrying that you might end up like someone in your family because you shared the same genes.

"And that's, that's not the only thing." He was bracing himself for the part he knew needed to come next, the things he had to get out now before they came out some other way. "My, my job, I love it, but it's also hard sometimes, and things happen, and those things aren't always easy to deal with. And one time, when I was on a case, there was this unsub, and, um, he- he took me away. He held me in this shack. He was sick too, he'd been abused, he had DID, so it wasn't that he was evil just… really, really broken. Like beyond repair sort of broken. And he kept me there and tortured me. For a few days, And, uh, one of the alters was his dad who'd abused him, and so when he was himself he tried to help me the way he helped himself. And that was with a painkiller, a really powerful painkiller. It's called Dilaudid." His voice fell softer, the sort of gentle, whispery tone she'd heard him use a handful of times. "Eventually my team found me, and the unsub, I had to shoot him. And that should've been the end of it really, but it wasn't. Dilaudid, it's kind of really addictive, especially in the doses he gave me."

Reid's eyes trailed down to the couch in guilt, and Bianca held her breath, waiting for what she could guess he wanted to tell her. "So I took a supply of it from him… and I started using it on my own. At home, on cases, it didn't really matter. Uh, nothing seemed to really matter then. It went on for a few months, and I think the whole team suspected something. I was out of it, and- and I was always snapping, and eventually I confessed to Gideon." Bianca recognized the name of his mentor from previous conversations. "And I got help, and I got clean. And I stayed clean. But there are still times, when things happen or sometimes even when they don't, that I feel that _urge_." Bianca knew the feeling. "That's the reason why I don't drink, and the reason why I never roll my sleeves up past my elbow, and why I don't take painkillers no matter how bad something hurts."

He looked up at her, eyebrows knit together, his whole body tense. "I know we still haven't said what it is that we are, and I guess we're still figuring that out, but I wanted you to know those things, because they matter. I know they're the kinds of things people run away from, and I don't want to hide them from you. You deserve to know, um, in case you want to change your mind or…."

So that's what he was worried about. He didn't want her to think he'd been hiding those things, only for her to discover them some other way later on. All this time he had been afraid she'd bolt once she knew. Her heart ached, and Bianca put both her hands on his, meeting his eyes with an expression of such compassion.

"Spencer," she said. "Nothing you've said- nothing you could say- will scare me off. It's okay. Everyone has things they're not proud of. We've all got scars, and we've got pasts that aren't always easy to talk about. Where you're from doesn't define you. It's where you are now, and where you're going. And you, you are kind, and you are brave, and you are smart, and you are generous. And you're here, and we're together, and I like that. And I like you. I _want_ to be _with_ you."

In his haste to close the space between them, Reid didn't even realize he'd knocked his mug of coffee over, spilling on to the rug. He just wanted to hold on to this girl who was sitting before him and accepting all the things he'd just handed her, wanted to thank the parents whose neglect had built this gentle person, and let her know that he accepted her in equal measure. He made a promise then that someday, he'd show her that a house could feel like home and introduce him to his own adoptive family again. He would tell her that she was enough, and he would give her the love she'd spent so many years longing for. But he didn't say those things out loud. He just whispered, "Thank you," and trusted that would be enough, for now.

Bianca smiled into his chest, her cheek pressed against his sweater. It felt so nice to be in his arms, to feel the beat of his heart and the warmth of his body. She wrapped her arms around him, stretching one hand up to tenderly stroke his hair. There would be time, for delving into the depths of things past, but all she wanted now was to hold onto him on that small sofa. Hold him, and give him the love and acceptance he deserved. She would stay. She wouldn't let him feel alone, wouldn't run from things he'd seen or the things he'd done. He didn't have to fight monsters alone; not at work, and certainly not at home.

* * *

 _"We all have chapters we would rather keep unpublished." – Downton Abbey_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I wanted to make sure this scene was one worth reading, and I've written and rewritten it a few times, toying with different ideas and different phrases. I hope it comes across with authenticity, and not callous conversation. This has been the chapter I feel most uncertain about, and any feedback would be incredibly helpful.  
**

 **A big thank you Artistgirl727 and Ktlv for favoriting this story; and to Dianaoctopus, Spurofthemoment24, Artistgirl727, cbsunjl, and Frostyhorse for following it.**

 **I'm so grateful to Ahowell1993 (all I want is for my beloved BAU to have happy lives, haha) Mossnose173 (thank you, thank you, thank you!) and Ripon (I tend to get invested in the little things that way) for writing reviews.**


	7. 7) I and Love and You

_"The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned." – Maya Angelou_

* * *

Love was weird. When had that word finally felt right to him? Reid could flip through the pages of perfectly intact memories and let the conversations play out like a film only he could see.

It began in New York, but it wasn't at all like the movies made it out to be. There was no "love-at-first-sight." There was an introduction flanked by work and research. Then there was intrigue and easy conversations, and conversation was rarely so _easy_ for him. There was something about her that stayed in his brain, much more so than could be attributed to an eidetic memory.

If he considered it, it was more the recognition of a kindred soul. Someone who loved books and words and learning, someone who had taken a job that meant dealing with dark things in order to make a difference. He just liked talking to her and he liked feeling understood by her.

But there was also the memory of her arms around him at the shipyard, a touch that stemmed from some great relief she saw at the sight of him. At the time he had attributed it to gratefulness that he'd helped to capture Wilson Okello, but he couldn't explain why he was haunted by that touch.

Was this how it had been for JJ and Will? Interest evolved into friendship and somewhere along the way that friendship shifted, and when he saw her all his feelings were tilted. Suddenly, that short girl with brown hair looked so very different from every other short girl with brown hair, so different from any girl. If he had to pinpoint a moment, he thought it was probably just after he went to visit her in NYC, when on the way home he realized that talking to her over the phone wasn't going to feel like enough anymore.

There had been crushes before, a curious longing for JJ or for Lila Archer. Now, his heart felt a pull, an instinctive need that wouldn't leave him alone. Reid didn't want to be alone. He wanted to be by her side. And for some inexplicable reason, she wanted to be by his.

They spent lazy afternoons on benches in the park, with books in their own hands and knees touching to make sure the other was still there. He made her plain coffee the way he did at work, straight espresso to keep him going. She made him "good" coffee, with milk and flavor the way she'd learned to in college. He took her on the subway so she could see his favorite places. It didn't matter what they did or where they were, as long as they were together.

She accepted the parts of him he still wasn't sure how to accept; he returned the favor. When she laid with him on the couch, her fingers resting on his arm, he didn't worry about the scars there. Maybe that was love: the way someone else could make you feel safe, the way you wanted them to feel safe.

* * *

"Family" was a word with many definitions, the sort of word where diction became important for it had as many meanings as there were people on the planet. In Hindi, for _brother-in-law_ alone there were words that separated the wife's younger brother and the wife's elder brother and the husband's younger brother and the husband's elder brother. In Arabic, there were eight different words for _cousin._ And in Japanese, honorifics used to identify siblings could be used for friends or acquaintances who were _like_ siblings.

For the members of the BAU, the word was full of meanings. There were the people who had raised them, living across the country. There were the people who loved them- children, spouses, significant others. And there were the people who saw them at their very best and their very worst, who had grown in to the term over the years. In every way that mattered, their team was their family.

It was at that sort of family gathering that Bianca met Spencer's team once more. They were having dinner together, a rare occasion where they had the time and comfort to include their "extended" family; Will and Henry, Jack, Kevin, and now she was a part of the equation. The words "girlfriend" and "boyfriend" still felt strange to use, but she and Spencer had decided that's what they were. Whatever the terminology, she was his and he was hers and therefore she was a connected to that family. She was the newest member, and though she'd grown to understand and appreciate them through Reid's stories, she was still nervous to greet them in person.

She remembered their names, and they welcomed her with a genuine enthusiasm, and it occurred to her that Reid had probably mentioned her to them as well. Still, she waited, watching as the agents and their kin moved and talked and laughed. It was strange to see the differences and the similarities between them.

Agent Hotchner- Hotch, she reminded herself- was more open here, allowing himself a smile that changed his face entirely. He was formal and tall and ever-alert, and he carried himself with pride.

Morgan, he was built sturdy and strong- so different from her Spencer, who was tall, but lanky and lean. He was charming, and every word he spoke seemed to light up the eyes of the person listening.

Prentiss, she was vibrant. She had a way of speaking that made conversation with her so natural, and her eyes were dark and inviting. She could float between groups- keeping up with Morgan's banter or speaking seriously with JJ, it didn't matter. Her presence was both mysterious and magnetic.

Rossi was bold and honest. He gave the impression that he could sometimes be blunt, and he was never afraid to speak his mind. It was easy to imagine him as a lone wolf, someone who played by his own rules, and yet he seemed so comfortable surrounded by these people.

JJ was gentle and attentive. She moved from person to person with such care; checking in on her son, giggling at something Emily had said, greeting Reid with a hand on his arm. The way she looked at them, it was clear that this was her family and she loved them more than anything.

And Garcia, she was truly one in a million. Her wardrobe was flashy and colorful, but she didn't dress that way for attention. It seemed merely to be the bright personality she held, manifested in fabric and quirky accessories. The tech analyst was expressive, and authentic.

These people had known each other for years, they knew Reid far better than she did, and Bianca wondered where exactly she fit in this picture. Their happiness, their obvious love for each other, she wanted to be a part of it. Yet when she looked around she wasn't sure how to jump in. Will was talking to Rossi, JJ stood with Henry in her arms and Prentiss by her side, Jack was explaining something to Hotch and Reid, and Garcia seemed to be teasing both Morgan and Kevin at the same time. She'd never had trouble talking to new people, but all at once she felt like an intruder. Could she belong here?

Bianca didn't even notice that Spencer had left the father-son duo to stand by her side. When he said, "Hey," she jumped, startled. But he just slipped his hand in hers, pulling her over to where Garcia was, and she knew instantly that if nothing else, she fit there, by his side.

Garcia, however, was instantly inviting, as Spencer had guessed she would be. "I remember you from New York," she said cheerfully. "You look smaller in person. Not that that's a bad thing! You're like, fun-sized. Love the clip, by the way." She pointed to the tiny flower barrette in Bianca's hair, and she could clearly make out two bright orange flowers pinning up the analyst's pigtails.

It was that easy, to the fall into place. From there, everything felt easier, less foreign and more familiar. Familial, even.

They ate together, with bits and pieces of conversations floating through the air between them. How was Jack liking soccer? No, I'm thinking of getting a cat. You think we could get a coffee machine for the bullpen? Why not the plane? Actually, it's quieter than my place in New Orleans.

Beside her, Reid was laughing at something Prentiss had said. So close together were their chairs around the crowded table that their elbows brushed the entire time. Being able to touch him was still such a new sensation. There was something about the discussion hidden in a physical connection. A pair of hands ensuring the other isn't lost. A pair of arms promising to stay. A pair of lips saying "you matter to me." There were no rules to when and where and why; those were for each pair to decode. Around that table, his presence reminded her that she was a part of something, that she was wanted there. Bianca listened to every voice intently, wanting to remember what it all felt like.

"If Jennifer Jareau is JJ," Garcia said at one point, "then Bianca Brown is BB, right?"

Bianca laughed. "I sound like an airsoft pellet."

"Just 'B', then" Garcia decided. Was that how it was supposed to be? Was that how it felt, to be surrounded by family who accepted you with question or condition? People who gave you nicknames and pet names, because one word wasn't enough to call you by?

In all her writing and in all poems, Bianca didn't think she could find words enough to describe her joy in that moment. On the way back to her apartment, she tried to properly explain to Spencer how much that meant to her, that he would bring her in to that family even if only for a night. In the end, nothing seemed to do it justice. So she wrapped her arms around him on the sidewalk, and kissed him, trusting her lips to convey what her voice struggled to do.

There were some things that needed no words; love, it seemed, was one of them.

* * *

"How about the Crime Museum?" Bianca was asking him. They were standing in the middle of the National Mall, surrounded by the vast sprawl of DC attractions. "It's right up that on way, on 7th Street."

Reid shook his head. "Could we go somewhere else?"

"Why not? I thought you'd know all kinds of interesting things about the exhibits!"

He sighed. He knew far too many things about crime. "It's not just the exhibits," he explained. "It's my job. I spend every day looking at crime scenes. For me, it doesn't end when I exit through the gift shop. The kind of souvenirs you leave with are the kind that require therapists." Bianca looked embarrassed for having suggested it. "I've been once. And it's interesting if you don't see that sort of thing every day. It's like this forbidden fascination. But trust me, there are far more interesting things. You don't want to walk through looking at fake blood spatters, or staring at Ted Bundy's car wondering how it must've felt to step inside and never make it home. There's a whole case full of things that belonged to John Wayne Gacy, but what about his victims? Everyone remembers how they died, but they remember how the killers lived. It's not fair. It's twisted, to memorialize that kind of thing."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realize that's what it would be like. Where do you want to go?"

"Hey, it's okay. You didn't know, B." The nickname Garcia had given her was already beginning to stick. "What about one of the monuments? There's the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials nearby?"

"Not the Jefferson Memorial!" she exclaimed. It was Reid's turn to look confused. "Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, but he still owned slaves! He refused to acknowledge the children he had by Sally Hemmings- which I _highly_ doubt was consensual- and he believed that a woman's life should revolve around home-making and pleasing her husband. When his daughter's dress wasn't to his standards, he called her a slut, he claimed women were dirty, _and_ he didn't think women deserved the vote!" She took a deep breath, straightening back up and pushing a stray piece of hair back from her forehead. "I have no qualms with Mr. Lincoln, though."

Spencer couldn't help but laugh and he wondered if that had been the intention behind her frenzied half-speech, to distract him from memories of crime scenes not kept behind museum glass. But then again, he supposed, every job left its employees with some sort of deep avoidance. "You know that his views weren't uncommon at that time though, right?"

Bianca gave him a sideways glance. "I know," she said coolly. "But Alexander Hamilton was an abolitionist. Aaron Burr was a feminist. And Abigail Adams even wrote to her husband urging him to _remember the ladies_. At which he mocked her for." She leaned her head against arm, smiling. "Maybe we she would just go to the Air and Space Museum. No politics, no crime scenes. Just stars and planes."

"There's a lot more than stars and planes," he chuckled. "There's rockets, lunar missions, satellites… You know the dynamics of flight are primarily physics based, even more so when you consider spacecraft instead of just aircraft? Normally, you only have to worry about two acting forces, which are typically referred to as the angles of attack and sideslip, respectively, but when you're trying to leave the planet-"

"Spencer, my dear?" she interrupted. He looked down, startled by the term of endearment. Bianca looked as though she was stifling a laugh. "You know I love listening to you. But could you maybe wait until we get inside to start teaching me about astrophysics?"

He blushed, embarrassed. But true to her word, once they started walking through the exhibits she happily nodded along as he rattled off facts on everything from the lunar missions to the Wright Brothers.

"Do any of these look like your jet?" she asked, as they wandered through the hangar filled with airplanes from various eras.

"Technically, it's not mine," he said. "Though that one's pretty close." He pointed to a 19th century hang-glider that looked like something out of daVinci's sketches.

"Not that one?" she giggled, gesturing to a bright yellow biplane.

Spencer pretended squint, as though he couldn't quite be certain. "Maybe if we let Garcia pick the paint colors." In the observatory, they took turns peering through the telescope. During the day only the moon, sun, and planet Venus could be viewed. Bianca noticed the calendar of events posted on the wall.

"Next Thursday they have a stargazing night!" she told him gleefully, as they exited out to the National Mall once more. "Do you want to go? I mean, if you don't have a case, that is?"

"If I don't have a case, then sure." Usually he couldn't wait for a case to come in, to spend time with his team doing what they did best. Just one night, he prayed. One night with nowhere else to go.

"It looks like they have one every month," Bianca added. "If it doesn't work out next week, then we'll just try again." Every month. They had months together. They didn't have to rush, didn't have to worry about any deadline. He laced his fingers through hers, and strolled up past the White House and Lafayette Square, working their way towards her apartment. He was more than happy to take the metro from place to place, but he knew Bianca preferred to walk. She liked taking in the buildings that were still so new to her, the sights and the sounds of a living city. Reid suspected her insistence on walking was a habit she'd formed in high school, back when she took every opportunity to exercise. Maybe that was why he stopped at the sight of the bright blue truck.

"What is it?" she asked. He gestured to the food truck. It was always amusing to watch someone see one for the first time- they were painted a startling shade of blue, with bright yellow menu boards. The lettering was almost comical, and in fact they had the image of a superhero on one side.

"Captain Cookie and the Milkman," he said. "One of the best food trucks in DC, in my professional opinion."

"Is that right?" she asked, laughing.

"I thought you'd be more surprised," Spencer said. "People usually think it looks strange." He was a little disappointed by her reaction.

"I lived in New York for a year, remember? I saw a food truck once called _Big Gay Ice Cream._ They had a flavor called Salty Pimp."

"You're serious?"

"I couldn't make something like that up if I tried."

"Wow." He was starting to rethink his previous desire to explore New York. New York confused him, very much so. Washington was full of its own brand of strange- usually in the form of politics- but NYC was an entirely different sort.

He made his way over to the open window of the truck, studying the yellow menus. The man inside leaned out, resting his elbows on a small shelf attached to the side. "Can I get an ice cream sandwich?" he asked the man. "Two of the chocolate chip cookies, with… vanilla in the middle. Thanks."

Bianca stepped up beside him, looping her arm through his. "Aren't you lactose intolerant?"

"That's never stopped me before."

"You're like a little kid with a sweet tooth," she teased.

"That reminds me, can I get a chocolate milk?" he asked the man in the truck.

The man nodded, then turned to Bianca. "What about you, miss?"

"Oh, um, I'm good. Thanks though," she told him, shifting her weight from foot to foot uncomfortably.

"One of the snickerdoodles," Reid corrected.

"Spencer," she said quietly. Her dark eyes searched his face, a pained expression on hers. He pulled his bottom lip up, pulling his mouth into the half-grimace he made when he didn't know what else to do.

"Here you are," the man said, pushing two small plastic containers and cup towards them, before either of them could say something else. Spencer gave him a ten dollar bill in exchange, telling him to keep the change.

He balanced the containers on top of each other, grabbed the cup, and took a seat on the closet bench, waiting for Bianca to join him. When she did, he slid the container with a single cinnamon coated cookie into her lap. Her hands remained firmly by her sides.

"Why did you do that?" she asked him. "You know I… I mean things like this are hard for me to…."

"I know," he said gently. "And I also know Eleanor Roosevelt once said, _do one thing every day that scares you."_ She loved Eleanor as much as she avoided junk food. "Have you ever had a snickerdoodle before? They taste like home." Or at least, they tasted the way home should. Sweet, and warm, and notstalgic. "You don't have to eat the whole thing. Just try it? Please?" She bit her lip in silent response.

He bit into his own ice cream cookie-sandwich, trying to keep the vanilla from falling out from the middle. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bianca fiddling with the plastic lid. If she thought he was watching her, he was afraid she wouldn't try it. The container popped open. He waited.

Perhaps this was pushing the limit, but god, she looked so small sometimes. The way she could vanish into a crowd. The way his hands cupped her face so easily. The way he could pull her into a hug, and lift her off the ground without even trying.

Home for her had been an unstable and ugly thing, and it continued to eat away at her while she tried to starve off the memories. The memory was a dormant monster, wont to wake when she felt lost or alone, and though they weren't close he knew the weeks without acknowledgement from her parents still stung. He wanted fill her days with memories the way he filled coffee with too much sugar; to make everything sweeter.

It wasn't long before Reid caught her staring up at him. "Do I have something on my face?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, just in case.

"No," she said. "I'm just trying to figure something out."

"What's that?" he asked.

Bianca weighed her words carefully before speaking. "How to say I love you."

An uncontrollable grin spread across his face. "I think you just did. And I love you, too." And when they kissed, her lips tasted of cinnamon and sugar. Of home.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Don't believe me when I say there's really a truck/shop in NYC called Big Gay Ice Cream? Google it, and read all about their crazy flavors.**

 **Thank you for reading this story! Thank you to Clear-sighted-believer, LisaPark, LucyyCanFlyy, raphfan182, uzumaki49, and zubrowka, and mlr96 for following/favoriting it; as well as ripon and ahowell1993 for reviewing the last chapter.  
**

 **I greatly appreciate the feedback, and love to hear from those of you who read these chapters. I've been trying to space out my updates my periodically, but with the amount of free time I've had lately, it's so easy to procrastinate other things by writing. But in the immortal words of some disputed author (some say John Lennon, others say Bertrand Russell- will we ever really know?), time you enjoy wasting is never wasted.**

 **Have a fantastic week!**


	8. 8) Spoken and Unspoken

Coffee, a shower, and a good book. In that order preferably. The first few weeks of work were always the hardest- trying to learn everything over again from scratch, meeting bosses and coworkers, and figuring out a schedule. That was hard enough, but then there was still work that needed to be done.

Coffee was purchased and drained, and while Bianca intended to spend a long time in the warm shower, the sound of the ringtone she'd assigned to Spencer was enough to send her stumbling out to answer it.

"Are we still on for dinner?" he asked. Dinner. Oh shoot, she'd forgotten about dinner. If she backed out suddenly, it wouldn't be fair to him.

"Of course," she said. "The Indian place, right? I can be there in fifteen minutes." It was a frantic dance, dashing from the bathroom to her bedroom and trying to throw on something nice enough for a date. Watch, where was her watch? On her desk, of course. It would take her at least ten minutes to make it over to the restaurant, so she'd have to let her hair dry as she went, grateful for the perks of short hair. Only after a mad dash out of the apartment, on and off of the metro, and down the street, did she realize she'd forgotten her phone. It was too late for that now. Already twenty-five minutes had gone by.

"There you are," Spencer said, jogging a few feet to meet her. "I called you twice, I was worried you were running late."

"I forgot my phone, I'm sorry! It's been one of those days." One of those days that left her feeling frazzled, stressed, and wholly useless. If she couldn't even do this job properly, what was the point?

"You'll feel better once you've eaten." He pulled her close to him, one arm around her waist as a server led them to a table. At the very least, it was nice to get off her feet.

"So what made today so rough?" he asked.

"Do you have any idea how long congressmen talk?" she sighed.

"Well, in 1957 Democratic senator Strom Thurmond filibustered the Civil Rights Act for 24 hours and 18 minutes, so judging by that I'd assume many of them can talk for quite some time."

"You'd be correct in that assumption. I met with three today about American aid to Syria, and they talked for hours but never really said anything. And their listening skills _sucked._ "

"That bad, huh?

Bianca nodded. "That bad." She could already feel the frustration rising again. She bit her lip and picked up the menu, trying to keep calm. This was a date. She was supposed to have fun.

"I strongly recommend the tandoori chicken," Spencer added. He'd politely refused a menu, having already memorized it.

"I don't know. I'm kind of leaning towards the saag paneer." She'd had chicken for lunch, a lunch that had mostly gone cold while she tried to get a word in with the congressmen, a lunch preceding hours of standing. Chicken seemed entirely unappealing at the moment, as did the Washington political scene. Politics fascinated her, but politicians left her feeling more and more disgusted.

"But that's spinach. Ew." His voice broke through the fog of thoughts, sounded surprisingly shocked.

"How did you get to be so tall if you didn't eat your vegetables?" she asked jokingly.

"I eat vegetables. Just not spinach. It's gross. Why would anyone willingly eat spinach?" He scrunched up his nose in disdain, like the word was something dirty, and she had to laugh at his expression. His features softened, the corners of his mouth curling up again. "There it is," Spencer said.

"What?"

"Your smile." He was too good to her. Bianca fiddled with the plastic edge of the menu, unsure exactly how to respond. It was just so easy to be around him, and he could read like her a book. He could read 20,000 words per minute, but it took only seconds to figure her out. As much as she loved books, she couldn't read his behavior like a profiler could. She had to ask in order to hear his stories.

"You must have bad days at work," she ventured.

"With my job, that happens all too often on a case."

"Tell me about them then. Your best case and your worst case."

Spencer gave her a quizzical look. "I don't think that's a good idea. It's um… not exactly suitable dinner conversation material."

"Please? You've told me about Tobias Hankel already. I want to be there for you when _you_ have bad days. I can't do that if I don't understand what it's like."

He frowned, folding and unfolding his hands. "Okay, worst case… I guess the Reaper. The Boston Reaper, he was a serial killer who was dormant for years until the lead detective on his case died. He turned out to be one of the victims, George Foyet, having inflicted the wounds himself knowing that medics would arrive in time to save him. We realized it was him too late though, and he nearly killed Morgan. We arrested him, and he escaped prison. It didn't take long before he hunted down Hotch and shot him, leaving him alive only so he could subject him to psychological torture when Hotch realized Foyet was going after his wife, Haley, and Jack. We spent days tracking him down, but in the end Hotch got there too late. Haley was already gone, but Jack survived. Hotch killed Foyet himself."

He glanced down at the table, and Bianca knew he could remember it all in vivid detail. "But I mean, sometimes it's hard to decide which case is the worst. Just when I think I've seen it all, there's something horrific still waiting for us. A hog farm in Canada, where a sociopath manipulated his disabled brother into killing 89 people and then feeding them the pigs. Frank, who used is RV to kill and torture, and sent rib bones to a woman he loved. A family who killed parents of young girls in order to find spouses for their sons. A mobster who shot the unsub right in front of me, and his daughter." He swallowed hard. "It just… it never ends."

"I'm sorry," she said, regretting the question. "I shouldn't have asked you to do that." How many cases were burned into his memory? Ignorant politicians were nothing compared to the things the BAU had to deal with.

He continued on, not responding to her apology. "Best case I've ever worked… that's hard. There was one in Texas, almost a year ago. A teenager was exacting his revenge on those who had wronged him, but we were able to arrest him without having to kill him or letting his girlfriend get hurt in the crossfire. Surprisingly, some our best days have been working cases involving kids. We were able to rescue three kids in Virginia, one of which who had been missing for years. We rescued a young boy from an abductor who was ready to auction him off. Gideon found a girl who was kidnapped in Delaware just when we thought we were going to have to let the guy responsible walk free."

"So that doesn't end either. There are bad cases and people you aren't able to save. But there's also always going to be good cases, and people you're able to rescue."

"Does the good cancel out the bad, though?"

She shrugged. "I think that depends. Maybe the good doesn't make up for the bad, but the good still happens. Both lists get longer. We can choose to remember the good, no matter how bad things get. And if things are bad at work, then I guess we look for good things in other places. That way you always have something to remind you that it's worth it, that not all the world is dark."

He flashed her a grin that said all was forgiven. How had she been so lucky, to stumble across this brilliant, beautiful man? Throughout the years she'd grown accustomed to finding her own light in the world, making it herself if she had to. There were her friends from school and from New York. The teachers who had been so much more parental than her mother and father. There were books and movies and songs that said exactly what she was feeling. Sometimes she wrote the words she needed to hear. She went for long runs and made lists of all the beautiful things she saw. A homeless man feeding pigeons. Flowers growing in sidewalk cracks. A sunrise. And then there was Spencer. In her universe of lights, he was the brightest by far. But she'd never known the world could be so bright. The only thing she could think to compare it to was the first month she'd started taking antidepressants. It was as if the whole world had been in black and white, and suddenly it was in color again, every feeling so intense and real and alive. That's what it felt like when she looked at him. What was the German word? _Fernweh_. The feeling of being homesick for a place you've never been to.

"You know, you're pretty wise, for someone who willingly eats spinach." There was that toothy, disarming grin again.

It was that easy. She looked at him and she was home.

* * *

It was raining outside. He liked the sound of the rain, the steady patter of water hitting the earth and washing things away. It was the perfect background music to a quiet Sunday afternoon, where Spencer sat with Bianca on the floor of his apartment. They'd ventured out together through scattered showers to add to their arsenal of books, and run back through a torrential downpour that had left both of them soaked. It didn't quite seem fair that her hair dried faster than his. Their clothes were soaked through, and he was grateful to change out of them. As for Bianca, she'd ditched her sweater first, leaving her with only a white tee shirt. Even her jeans were inexplicably damp. She had stood shivering in the doorway, too nervous to ask for something herself. When her teeth began to chatter, Reid ventured into his closet for cardigans, insisting she change into something dry.

So she sat next to him with her legs out in front of her. Her jeans had been hung with her sweater over his shower bar, and she wore his gray cardigan like a dress, the edge of the garment almost reaching the tops of her knees. "What are you thinking about?" Bianca asked him now, watching as he flipped slowly through a novel.

"Just this last case," he answered. "I had to do a lot of reading." Their last killer had detailed tattoos, he explained to her. Each one had represented a victim, and he kept records in dozens of journals confessing to his crimes. "I mean, it was easy to do it. But being stuck in the head of someone like that for so long? It just… it felt wrong. It was supposed to be like that Bradbury story, _The Illustrated Man,_ but that was haunting and this was just plain disturbing. I know it's helpful, for me to be able to read all those journals in just a few hours, but sometimes I think my team forgets that every word is never going to leave my head."

"Remind me to give you something lighter to read. I've been working on some new poems." She was trying to distract him. Reid was still tense, still trying to blink away the images from that man's skin. Nothing seemed to help, and Bianca must've noticed.

"Tell me about the Illustrated Man," she said. "I read Fahrenheit 451 back in school. But I've never read that book."

"Well, it's actually a collection of short stories, tied together by common themes of technology and psychology. The stories are unrelated, except for the Illustrated Man. He's a former carnival sideshow, and he's covered in tattoos. The ink was drawn by a woman who travels through time. There are eighteen in total, and by night they move, each one telling the story of something that will happen in the future. The Man resents her for that."

"That sounds fascinating. Very _Doctor Who_. Or the _Time Traveler's Wife_. Have you heard of that one?" He shook his head. "A book you haven't read? Goodness. Well, it's a love story. A man is born with the ability through time, but he can't control when it happens or where he goes. In his future, he travels back to various points in his wife's childhood, so their life is sort of out of order. When they meet in the present, she knows everything about him, but he has no clue who she is. But once they're married, she's always getting left behind, while he's disappearing to different places and times. It's really beautiful, but also really sad."

"It sounds lonely. They're always missing each other."

"Yeah," Bianca said, returning her attention to her book. And it was, wasn't it? He realized that sounded strikingly similar to any future he had with Bianca. He would be away on cases, leaving her in DC while he tried to save lives. And she had always dreamed of traveling the world. What if she took a job somewhere far away, working for the UN in some other country? _They_ would always be missing each other.

"If you had tattoos that told your story, what would they look like?" Bianca's question brought him back to the present. He'd never considered something like that before. Reid had no desire to permanently ink his skin. But if he were an Illustrated Man, if tattoos told a story, what would they say?

"Well, a book, for starters. That would be the most obvious. I guess the best thing to represent the FBI would be a badge or a gun, though I'm a terrible shot. Maybe some sort of map, since I do a lot of geographic profiling. And something on my arm, something to remind me of how much I almost lost to that addiction."

"Here?" her fingers moved hesitantly like her question, grazing his forearms.

"There," he confirmed. She traced circles on the spot, before trailing up to his shoulder. A tingling sensation followed her path, something electric that made it harder to think straight. This. This was a perfect distraction. She was touching his shoulders, his collarbone, running her knuckles over his neck and back down, towards his chest. With intense concentration, she mimicked the process of turning someone into a walking canvas. He could feel her trying to draw out shapes to match his stories. But _oh_ , when she did that every nerve in his body was awakened.

She rested her hand over his heart, he wondered if she could feel it racing, every beat telling her palm that he was crazy for her, that her touch made the words and the memories vanish for a brief moment. He wanted her body against his always, skin on skin, because he'd never really had much use for the corporeal in his lifetime. Physical things seemed miniscule in his pursuit of knowledge and wisdom. He suddenly understood why people craved human contact so much, and in that moment he was so very grateful for a body to house his mind. And she, she was so much more than a body, but the very sight of her did things to him; more so because he understood the spirit that vessel carried.

"And since reading was your first love, a book… here?" she asked, and he could only muster a nod in response. Reid had severely underestimated the benefits of physical connection. His whole body felt warm and flushed, a surge of heat rushing through him, making him just a little uncomfortable. The pleasure far outweighed the discomfort, and he remained as still as possible while Bianca continued to make patterns on his torso, what he assumed to be a map. A part of him prayed she wouldn't venture any further down his chest, closer to the place he was trying to not to think about; and part of him wished for that exact thing. Then there was the part of him trying to frantically process desires he hadn't felt in quite some time, feelings he wasn't sure what to do with. It was one thing to discuss the arousal of psychopaths, it was another thing entirely to _be_ aroused.

Bianca stopped abruptly, lifting her hands away from him. "Okay," she said. "My turn. I think a globe, for travel and for my job. A picture to represent one of my favorite poems… like a crystal wine glass for _Litany._ And something for New York, since so many important things happened there. I guess an apple would make sense, but I think I'd rather have a skyline instead. And the stars. On my worst days, there was always something so hopeful about staring out my window at the constellations and knowing there was something bigger out there."

She lay down, watching him with anticipation. He was the artist now. It was easy to visualize the images on her arm, brushing them on with the very tips of his fingers, the pad of his thumb running along her wrists. She shivered, but it wasn't from the cold of the rain this time. Moving across the spot above her clavicle created the same response. Whether it was better to touch or to be touched, he couldn't say, but Reid was suddenly grateful for the existence of nerve endings and cutaneous receptors. Curious, he allowed his hand to wander towards her stomach, near the place where her hipbones jutted out.

There was no shiver this time. It was a knee-jerk reaction, as she pulled her legs in and bolted halfway-up from the floor with a gasp. "Are you okay?' he asked, startled.

"Yes," she assured him. "I'm sorry." But when he tried to pick up where they left off, it happened again, half of a laugh escaping her mouth. This was going to be something- he'd never realized she was so ticklish. Suppressing a smirk, he reached with both hands to that spot, and she let out a yelp. That didn't stop him though, from tracing a path across her stomach, his fingers dancing across the wool sweater, Bianca in a fit of giggles while he got caught up in her laughter. She laughed, swatting at his hands until he trailed up, closer to the outside of her ribcage. She practically jumped off the floor, her limbs flailing and crashing into him. Her foot met his side, and they both toppled onto the rug with heaving breaths.

"I'm sorry," she panted, still laughing. "I didn't mean to kick you!"

"It's okay. It wouldn't be the first time." Spencer had years of training in high school, and could still remember the toe of Hotch's shoe kicking him across the floor of the emergency room. They were a tangle of limbs on his floor, but she made no move to get up. She just rested her head on his shoulder, one arm draped across him.

"Spencer?"

"Mm?" He was concentrating on the feeling of her against him, so close to him, the intoxicating smell of the rain still on her hair; and trying to cool the heat still running through his veins.

"Do you ever think about the future? I mean, our future?" She spoke in a whisper.

"Sometimes," he confessed, allowing himself to touch her again, stroking her hair. "I don't know exactly what it would look like. I mean, my home is here, with the BAU. I've never done anything else. But would you want to stay in one place that long?" Her arm across his chest, their breaths falling into a steady rhythm together. Those things would keep him tethered to the present, as he tried not to worry about the future.

"I'm not sure. I mean, my job in New York ended, so I came here, and I wanted to try working on the political side of things. But I always thought I would be flying to foreign countries, working as a diplomat or something. I'd love to go to Paris, or Geneva, and work for the Human Rights Council. But then, you're here. We made the distance work before, but I think I'd miss things like this."

"I don't want you to give up your dream on behalf."

"I never dreamed I would have someone worth doing that for. We don't have to decide anything right now. Right now, this is enough for me."

This was more than enough, he thought. He never had reason to believe that even this would be his future, his present. In school, the girls had been years older than him, and they never paid him much thought unless it was to torment him. Even after he graduated, he'd found himself isolated by his achievements and his intelligence. It was so impossibly _hard_ to relate to other people, and it was so impossibly hard for other people to understand him. He thought the solution would be to find someone who could match his brainpower in order to relate to him, but maybe there was another way. All that time, maybe he just needed to find someone with enough heart to understand him.

* * *

 _"It is quite clear that between love and understanding there is a very close link. He who loves understands, and he who understands loves. One who feels understood feels loved, and one who feels love feels sure of being understood_." - _Paul Tournier_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Thank you for continuing to read this story! It means a great deal to me. Please bear with me through the next few chapters- I know they may seem quite drabble-y, but I swear I do have a legitimate plot in mind. Right now I'm just trying to move the story forwards, and it seemed to make more sense to do so in a series of connected vignettes rather than longer individual scenes. The BAU is so often out of town or traveling that I figure their personal life is probably fairly divided up.**

 **It's been interesting, coming up with ways to move Bianca and Spencer closer together, and I'm grateful to everyone who has continued to read this story.**

 **Again, any feedback- comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticism, etc.- is all very much appreciated!**

 **Thanks to AlexIVVI, StrawberryT, shadygrl91, Kalliope-Korinna-Klytaimnestiaand, Ericana,and tommot31 for favoriting/following this story!**

 **And an extra big thank you to Artistgirl727, ripon, and ahowell1993 for reviewing the last chapter.**


	9. 9) Science and Faith

_"Faith is not something to grasp, it is a state to grow into." –Mahatma Gandhi_

* * *

Alaska was four hours behind Eastern Standard Time. By the time he called to say they'd caught the unsub, it was 5 PM Alaskan Time. It was 9 PM in Washington DC, and Reid had missed the stargazing night at the Smithsonian yet again.

Bianca tried not to feel disappointed. After all, he had no control over where his cases took him, or when he could return. Still, she had hoped they could go this time. The sky was perfectly clear. It was too late now to go out for coffee or call up a friend to make other plans. It was however, early enough to make microwave popcorn and curl up on the sofa to take full advantage of the Harry Potter movie marathon weekend. Thank you, _ABC Family_.

It was Friday afternoon when Spencer called her again, asking if she was free that night.

"Do you have something in mind?" she asked him.

"I might," he replied cryptically. She tried to focus on work after that, but her mind kept wandering back to that short phone call. What was he planning? It took immense focus to stay on task, reminding herself that if she didn't finish up these letters, she wouldn't get home in time to find out.

He showed up at her door at 8:30, wearing one of his nicer blazers and carrying a duffel bag. "It'll all make sense," he promised. "Just make sure you grab a jacket." Bianca did as instructed, and followed Spencer out of the building and into the cool night air.

"Will you at least tell me where we're going?" she asked.

"I'll tell you when we _get_ there," he replied. He'd brought his car, which smelled strongly of coffee, and they drove out of DC and into Virginia. Bianca watched the landscape passing by, city lights being replaced by towns, and towns being replaced by trees. They arrived at a large park, which Spencer said wasn't too far from Quantico.

"This is it then?"

"Well, almost," he added. Duffel bag in hand, he led her down a dirt trail.

"Will you tell me what's going on?" she asked once again.

Spencer smiled. "As you may have noticed on the drive over, we're farther from any cities or suburbs, and closer to rural Virginia. This spot in particular happens to be in an area of a state forest. The surrounding area therefore guarantees that there's very little light out here. It's completely dark for a few square miles."

"Now I'm starting to feel creeped out. We both hate the dark."

"Lucky for you, you're with an FBI agent. And I'm willing to put up with the dark for something like this. Now, it's also a new moon tonight, making the night even darker," he said, as they stepped into a small meadow clearing. "Cities create massive light pollution, due to the amount of streetlights, highways, and tall buildings. The majority of lights are angled upwards, which makes the problem even worse. But, I've brought us out here, with - and if you'll notice the duffel bag…"

He set the black bag on the ground, and Bianca had to squint to make him out clearly. There was the sound of something being unzipped, and Spencer pulled out what looked like a blanket, spreading it out on the grass. From the bag he also grabbed a small camping lantern, a flashlight, and a small book, continuing his rambling explanation. "Now, I've brought nearly everything we need. But before I show you what's in the rest of the bag, I'll need you to take a seat on the blanket."

Bianca complied, and he sat down next to her. "Is this one of your magic tricks?" she asked.

"You could look at it that way. A great magician never reveals his secrets, but I think I can make an exception for you. As I said, I'm sure you noticed that we're far from any town or city, and we're sitting in the middle of a dark forest. But you'll also notice that I've been distracting you with a fairly long and mostly pointless explanation in order to keep your eyes on me and prevent you from looking up. So now that we're in the proper position, look up."

The sight of it was breathtaking. In the black night, there were thousands of tiny points of light, a shining map of stars. The city lights she loved to watch were nothing compared to this. In her life, Bianca had always found the sight of the stars to be comforting, but she'd lived in a city or a suburb her whole life. Never had ventured out so far from civilization to see something like this. She'd never realized that stars had so many different levels of brightness, that some were a dull twinkle and others were a stunning glow. She turned to him, awestruck, and he gave her a sheepish grin.

"I know how much you wanted to go to the observatory night, and I know I keep missing it. To be honest, I don't know if there's ever going to be a day when I can make it to one. So I thought maybe I could give you your own personal stargazing night to make it up to you. I even brought a constellation map, and an astronomy book, and everything."

"You didn't have to do this!"

He shrugged. "I wanted to."

Bianca threw her arms around him. "I love you." As it turned out, there was more he'd packed inside the duffel. Once he turned on the lantern, she could see there were two Ziploc bags full of popcorn, as if they were watching a movie - and she had to admit it nature put on a pretty incredible show- a box of jellybeans, since Spencer seemed incapable of going too long with out something sweet, two plastic cups, and a bottle of something golden colored.

"It's called Golden Star Tea. I was trying to find some sort of alternative to champagne, and this seemed appropriate. It's a sparkling white jasmine tea." _Star tea,_ she thought. Appropriate indeed. He poured them each a cup, and passed the constellation map to Bianca. They laid on the blanket, staring up the stars. Bianca would search the map to find a constellation that matched the patterns in the sky, and as soon as she pointed out the tiny points of light, Reid was able to name it. She wasn't surprised he'd memorized them all.

When they had exhausted the list of names and stars, she whispered, "It kind of makes you feel small, doesn't it?"

"It does. But being able to explain the universe and its creation helps with the overwhelming feeling of insignificance."

"But, there still are things in the universe we can't explain."

"Like what?"

In the pause between words, there was an eerie silence, where only the chirping of crickets and rustle of leaves could be heard. "Spencer, do you believe in God?" She didn't ask to judge him or make a snap decision about his moral character, as people sometimes did. It was merely inquisitiveness, the search to an answer for question she hadn't yet asked him.

Wind, crickets, air undisturbed by the sounds of traffic or people. Then, "Do you?"

"Sure. I mean, I have doubts sometimes. But I took a few theology classes at Loyola, and I have to believe there's something bigger out there. That we're here for a purpose."

"Garcia says everything happens for a reason. Do you believe that?"

Bianca flipped over on her side so she could see him better. "I don't believe in a God that makes bad things happen to us. I do believe that there's a plan for us, and I believe that when bad things happen, God turns them into something meaningful by leading us to something good."

Spencer rolled over on the blanket too, his eyebrows knit together. "When… when I was being held captive by Tobias, I died at one point." He hadn't told her that part before. "I mean, I was revived, but my heart did stop. And there was this… this light. And there was a figure in the light, a human figure. I heard someone say that it wasn't my time. And then I woke up, in the dim shack again. I haven't told anyone that. And I guess that's because I don't know how to make sense of it. I'm a scientist. My life is based on logic and reason, and nothing about that was logical."

Bianca touched his forearm lightly. "My roommate in college was intensely Catholic. She was also extremely smart, and she went on to work as a physicist for NASA. When we used to talk about God, she told me that she thought science and faith went hand in hand. If you took Genesis figuratively, it matched up pretty well with the Big Bang Theory. And if you believed Adam and Eve were a way to explain the Out of Africa hypothesis, it seemed to fit. She believed in science, but she also believed in miracles. There are just some things that can't be broken down to simple logic. Like love."

"Actually, love is a chemical response based on the neurotransmitters adrenaline, dopamine, and serotonin. Hormones help to create a sexual attraction, and oxytocin and vasopressin create feelings of long-term attachment after sex. It's thought that our lovemap is created as children based on our early experiences, but psychologist Arthur Arun once performed an experiment where he had complete strangers revealed intimate details of their life for thirty minutes, and then stare deeply into each other's eyes in complete silence. Most of the couples reported feeling a deep attraction, and two even got married."

Leave it to him to make love seem so simple. A strand of hair had fallen in front of his eyes, and she reached over to brush it back behind his ear. It was getting to be so long, nearly to his shoulders. The longer it got, the curlier it became, though she didn't mind. It suited him.

"What about us though? I mean, you're nothing like any of my family members, in looks or personality, and they're the people I had the most contact with for most of my childhood. And unlike Freud believed, you're the exact opposite of my father. So why did I fall in love with you? And what are the odds that your team is the one who gets called in to consult on a case in New York, the exact case that I've been working on? That a child prodigy from Las Vegas and a girl from Ohio are in the same room? And what's more, that we would maintain a relationship? Nothing about us makes sense."

He ran the back of his hand over her cheek. "So what do you call it, B, when you have no proof to explain something?"

"You call it faith. I don't have an IQ of 187. I'm not a genius, I don't have a PhD, and I hate calculus. But, Spencer, the way I feel about you? That's real. And that's all I need to know."

* * *

Over the months, Bianca would watch as Spencer changed. It was usually his hair - she'd seen it in a variety of styles and a variety of lengths. She liked looking back through photographs and trying to guess the month. It was almost a form of time travel. She could at least count on his wardrobe to stay fairly the same. Reid was loose cardigans and layers and blazers over plain trousers. He was sweater vests and his messenger bag, and ill-fitting fabric, so often too big for him. He looked like he belonged in a college library, and she- well, she could've been the librarian. Bianca was Peter-Pan-collars and circle skirts and patterned button down blouses. She was oversized sweaters and Oxford shoes and knee-high socks. In that way, they always seemed to go together. She, with short hair, and he with long, strolling through bookstores in clothes just a little too big, but hands that fit perfectly in place.

When he arrived at her apartment in July, she almost didn't recognize him. His hair, nearly to his shoulders only days ago, had been cropped short. A few stray curls stuck up in odd places, and she wondered if he had used hairspray on it.

Reid must've seen the surprise on her face, because his hand flew to his head. "I, uh, decided it was time to try something different. Long hair was getting to be kind of a hassle."

"It's not bad," she assured him. "It's just different. I think it might take me a few days to get used to, that's all." He looked so much younger. As she stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her, Bianca allowed herself a chance to look him over in whole. He was certainly different. His shirts were usually loose and worn, but this one fit him well - almost tightly, even. The black tie around his neck was thin and dotted with stars, one she hadn't seen before. His sleeves were rolled up just before his elbows, as he always took care to do, but even the hem of his white shirt had been tucked in much neater than usual; and his belt cinched close around his waist.

As they started out of the building, she had to admit… he looked nice. When had he started dressing that way? It wasn't a drastic departure from his standard style, so she figured she probably didn't look out of place beside him. He still wore his beat up black Converse. They were still a library couple, headed out for coffee, and to catch-up on the days they'd lost between the bustle of their respective jobs.

It wasn't until they were making their way down the sidewalk, Bianca trailing behind him ever so slightly to navigate crowds and parking meters, that she realized Spencer really did look different. It was evident not only in his clothes, but his body as well. His arms looked stronger, the muscles in his shoulders and neck more apparent. Her eyes ventured downwards, grateful that he couldn't see her combing over every inch of his body. She had looked at him before, but never this way. Even his pants seemed more fitted. Before they seemed almost baggy at times, but now he filled them out well. _He does have a nice butt,_ she thought, and noticing that left her feeling even more flustered.

And so their walk continued that way, Bianca sneaking glances at his torso, his chest, his backside, taking him in. Was she allowed to do that? She'd spent so much time lost in his eyes or his smile, but never looking at _all_ of him. When they finally sat down, coffee in hand, he raised an eyebrow at her. "Is everything alright? You seem nervous. Kind of jittery."

Bianca took a sip of her latte. "I guess I'm just glad to be out with you again," she said. "I missed you." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the reason why she was having a hard time making eye contact. They sat for a moment in silence before she decided to be brave and broach the subject. "Spencer… um, have you been working out… or something?"

He fidgeted with his cup. "The FBI, they have all these policies and evaluations, in order to ensure agents are up for the job. And of course there are written tests and psychological exams, and that's always been easy. But there's uh, there's still the fitness portion for the field qualifications. And that's not exactly my specialty." He looked embarrassed now, and she knew physical strength had never been a _strength_ of his. "So I thought maybe this time, if I tried to prepare for it like I would any other test, I wouldn't struggle as much." He met her eyes again. "You can tell?"

Bianca laughed. "Yes. I mean it's not a huge difference- not like your hair. But there are all these little things. You look stronger. It's almost like there's more of you in certain places- like your shoulders and your back. And your clothes, they all fit tighter."

"Oh, that," he said, as though it was an afterthought. "Um, sometimes people talk, and apparently the way I dress isn't exactly _fashionable_ , or so they say." His expression plainly said he knew that much was obvious. "I thought maybe I could try to change a few things, buy clothes that fit better. It was just time for a change I guess. And, I don't - I don't want you to you to be embarrassed about me. I want to look nice when I'm somewhere with you."

"Embarrassed? Spencer, you don't have to worry about that. I don't like you for how you look," Bianca said. "I like you for your mind, and for your heart." She reached up to brush a wisp of hair from his forehead. "I love _you,_ however long your hair is, whatever you wear. I mean, you do look nice." Her eyes trailed down again, and she was sure he caught her doing so. "The clothes, they aren't bad. But I love the man who wears them more."

When they finished their coffee he suggested they pay a visit to the nearby park. Though the crowds had dispersed, she trailed behind him just so, just enough to sneak glances in all the places he'd changed. He turned to her suddenly, a question written on his face, and she averted her gaze.

Spencer leaned in to whisper in her ear. "'You're checking out my butt, aren't you?" There was a smug smirk on his face. Bianca, face red, stood on her toes to kiss his cheek.

"You look nice, Dr. Reid."

* * *

Change was a part of nature, and adaptation was natural as well. When things changed, they changed with them. Bianca had to admit, she was growing rather fond of his short hair. He ditched his long jacket for a fitted peacoat, one that went well with that purple scarf she loved so much. And she was all too happy to borrow one of the cable-knit sweaters he'd purchased when he had decided to update his wardrobe. On her, they were more like dresses with buttons.

With time, they adapted to each other. She wanted him to know that she was there for him, and so she began to ask him about his cases each time he got home. She told him to walk her through things, explain everything he needed to get out. She didn't want him to think he had to hold everything in. He would come back with hands that had found horrors, that had rescued a child, that had touched or killed an unsub; and they would unpack it together while she held those same hands.

When he was away, she would send him pictures of things she saw and bits of poems, anything she hoped would bring a small bit of light to him, wherever he was.

He learned how to let her in, how to stop worrying that the things he said would scare her away, and started to believe that maybe someone in his field was capable of finding love after all. His days off were no longer spent wishing for a case to come in, now that he had someone to spend them with. On weekends, he made a point of spending time with her. They crossed museums off of their list, browsed libraries for hours, and wandered around the many parks and memorials the city was home to. Sometimes they just rode the metro all the way to the end of the line and back, sitting side by side and watching the passengers get on and off, taking turns talking about each. He would try to profile them while she wrote haikus about their lives, and both of them would embark smiling.

When he was home, he would ask her to go out to dinner and sometimes he'd even go over to her place, where she would try and teach him how to cook. She claimed it was a science so he should be good at it, he contested it was an art so he wasn't, and they agreed that he definitely had a lot left to learn.

He was flying back from a case in Nebraska, trying to sleep when Spencer overheard Garcia talking to Morgan.

"Does he _like her_ like her though? I mean, he brought her to meet us, so that has to mean something, right?"

"Baby girl, I don't know much about Reid's experiences with love, but I know they're not extensive. I think it's pretty safe to say he cares about her a lot."

"And you think she likes him?"

"Would she be with him if he didn't?"

"You have a point. I don't know, it's just that everyone else on the team has been in some sort of relationship. I want our boy genius to be happy too."

"I think he is, Penelope. I really do. Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"I thought you said he was sleeping?"

"He's trying way too hard to look asleep to actually _be_ sleeping."

There was the sound of Garcia hurriedly signing off the webcam, barely audible over Morgan's laughter.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So here we are, at chapter 9! This is another more drabble-like chapter, but it's brought us up to the beginning of Season 6, timeline wise. The first scene was after Exit Wounds, and the second taking place around the same time as _The Internet is Forever_ and _Our Darkest Hour/The Longest Night_ , when Reid had his "boyband hair."**

 **I suppose this is sort a turning point, when things are beginning to change for them, and I wanted to be able to illustrate that. Their relationship is evolving and changing. I think there comes a time when you've been looking at someone, and then suddenly you're seeing them, and everything feels different. You notice all the things you didn't notice before. Reid's haircut seemed a natural turning point, when he transitions out of loose fitting clothing to more fitted, stylish things. I hope that makes sense. I was worried that scene would seem too out-of-character for them, considering Reid is fairly self-conscious. But I also hope it shows that they're becoming more comfortable with each other and their relationship.  
**

 **Thank you to secretlyemi, spurofthemoment24, HighTide12, for favoriting/following this story. I still can't believe that so many people are still reading this, and I greatly appreciate all of you!**

 **And of course, an big thanks to ahowell1993, ripon, and spygoose for reviewing the last chapter. I'm grateful to anyone who takes the time to write me feedback about this story.**


	10. 10) Had We But World and Enough Time

"Please, please tell me you don't have a case today."

"You're in luck. Why?"

There was a deep sigh from the other end of the line. "My family is here."

Reid hadn't been expecting that answer. "Your- your family? I thought you hardly ever heard from them."

"I don't," Bianca said. "Which is why I didn't know they were in Virginia until they called last night saying they were stopping in DC. My parents and my brother were visiting my cousins. And now the three of them are on their way to my apartment as we speak. _Please_ don't make me face them alone."

It took only sixteen minutes to get from his apartment to her place. She was standing outside the building, peering at her watch anxiously. The look that crossed her face when she spotted him could only have been described as relief.

"Oh thank goodness," she said, running to hug him. "Thank you so much for doing this. They're getting off the metro now, they should be here any minute. I'm so glad you came."

"Of course I came. You called."

"I love you." She pressed her lips to his cheek. He was leaning in to give her a proper kiss when her expression changed. If her reaction towards him was relief, this could only be described as panic. Her cheeks turned pink, her palm was sweating as she squeezed his hand, and she was biting her lip.

The three figures walking towards them had to be her family. Her father was the tallest, a round-faced man with graying hair and thick glasses. Her mother was the shortest, at most two inches taller than Bianca. She had dark blonde hair that had recently been permed, and carried a heavy purse. Her brother fell between the two, and he was surprised that he looked so similar to Bianca. They both had short brown hair, and similar facial features, though he wore a scowl and it was doubtful that his hair had been washed recently. In fact, none of them were smiling, even at the sight of their daughter.

"Hey," Bianca said timidly. "I'm glad you made it here okay."

"It took us a while to find the building, but here we are," her mother answered. "Who's this?" The woman gestured to Spencer.

"This is Spencer," her daughter answered. "My boyfriend." She said it like a title of honor, and he couldn't help but feel proud. Yes, that was him. He was _her_ boyfriend.

"Hi." He reached out to shake the hands of each family member in turn, trying to make a good impression despite his disdain for physical contact with strangers. "I'm _Doctor_ Spencer Reid." He usually reserved that particular title for introducing himself out on a case, but he wanted them to know exactly who he was, wanted to tell them that he was above them. He was far above them, smart enough to know just how special their daughter was. How could they not see that?

"Don Brown," her father said. "This is my wife, Ann, and our son, Rick. But then, you probably already know that." Reid didn't correct him. "So what do you practice, Doctor?"

"Oh, I'm not that kind of doctor. I have three PhDs though- mathematics, engineering, and chemistry."

"You must be some sort of genius. Are you a chemical engineer?"

"Actually, Mr. Brown, I work for the FBI. I'm a special agent." A special agent who can find your address, credit card purchases, and criminal record with a single phone call.

"Just call me Don." He'd really rather not. He could keep it impersonal that way, distance himself from them like he would with the family of a suspect or a victim. Though to be honest, her father seemed fairly friendly.

"Bianca, you said it wasn't hard to get to the National Mall from her, correct?" Mrs. Brown- Ann, that was- asked. "I want to see the Washington Monument."

"No, it's not. There's a metro stop nearby we can take." If Bianca was suggesting they take the Metro, she must've really wanted to spend as little time with them as possible. Reid maintained his hold on Bianca's hand, walking with her a few feet in front of her family towards the station.

"So why are you the only one with such an old-fashioned name?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"It was my great-grandmother's name. She died the year I was born, and my grandmother wanted one of her grandkids to keep the name alive. Rick's middle name is Obadiah, like my dad's dad was. But I guess they figured it was a little too old-fashioned."

"That makes sense. How old is he, by the way?"

"We're five years apart. He just turned twenty."

They rode to the National Mall in a crowded train. The Browns sat, while he stood beside Bianca, pressed close to her to let her know he was still there. He could've sworn she started breathing easier when they climbed back out onto the street, like being in such close-quarters with her family again was suffocating. It had been hard for him to be in the same room with his father when they'd reunited back in Vegas, and he figured that claustrophobic feeling was familiar to her as well.

When the reached the monument, Ann refused to go up. "What do you mean you don't want to?" her husband complained. "You're the one who wanted to come here!"

"I want to _see_ the Monument. I don't want to _climb_ it. I hate heights."

"Well we're going up," Don declared. And then, as marched towards the towering white structure, "Can you believe her?" The older man shook his head. The four rode the elevator up to the top, where the father and son took turns peering out the small window.

"That's it?" Rick was unimpressed. "That's lame. What's the point of this thing?"

They rode down the way they'd come up- slowly and in silence. Reid pointed out the various museums around the Mall from memory, but the family couldn't agree on where they wanted to go.

Her father didn't want to go anywhere with steep admission prices ("I don't want to pay twenty bucks just to go inside a museum. That's ridiculous.") and her mother didn't want to go through one of the Smithsonians ("Because Don, it takes you five hours to walk through so you can read every little placard." "That's the whole point! You're supposed to learn something.") and her brother had little interest in the remaining options.

"I don't want to go to the Holocaust Museum," he was saying. "I spent enough time learning about that in high school. What about the Crime Museum? It's close to here."

Oh, perfect. Spencer exchanged a concerned glance with Bianca, trying to think fast. "Actually, the entrance fee is pretty expensive, and walking through the exhibits requires extensive reading. In very small type. But the National Art Gallery is free, and right on the Mall."

And so it was decided. They split up once inside, each wandering in search of various artists. He and Bianca spent their time hunting for Van Gogh's paintings, at her request. "Someday," she told him. "We'll go to the Van Gogh Museum, in Amsterdam."

"Amsterdam?"

"Amsterdam! I studied abroad in Europe. As much as I love French, Amsterdam actually turned out to be my favorite city."

"I never studied abroad. Too risky, letting a minor travel through a foreign country."

"Even if said minor was a genius?" she asked, laughing. He wanted to kiss her mid-laugh, right there in the middle of that gallery, surrounded by so many beautiful colors and paintings, but just as he drew a hand to her cheek-

"Bianca, there you are!" Ann Brown came around the corner, and the two of them nearly jumped apart. "We were looking for you. Your dad's ready for lunch."

They settled on an Italian place off of Pennsylvania Avenue, the five of them sitting at a round table near a window. "You can see the White House from here," Reid noted. "We could stop over there after lunch."

"The only time I'm going near that place is when they finally run Obama out," Don remarked. To his left, Reid could see Bianca's cheeks flushing. "The only reason he was elected was because he's black."

"President Obama isn't that bad," Bianca replied. "He's had a positive impact domestically and internationally. I don't see why the color of his skin should matter so much."

"You just like to be contrary," Don fired back. "Always disagreeing with me."

Spencer could've sworn he heard Bianca mutter _don't flatter yourself_ under her breath. Ann looked hard at her husband. "Leave it alone."

An uncomfortable quiet fell over them, until the waiter returned to take orders. "What's the chicken marsala like?" Mr. Brown asked. "I'm trying to watch what I eat you know. I'm on a diet." Bianca's jaw tightened at the word, and he worried that she'd balk and order something like vegetable soup. But to his relief, she asked for gnocchi with pesto. Reid cringed when her father spoke up again. "Really? All those carbs? You know, they say carbs are one of the worst things you can eat. When you were in high school, you wouldn't even touch pasta."

It took a great deal of restraint to keep his mouth from dropping open. Didn't he know not to say things like that to her? What kind of parent lectured a daughter with a history of anorexia about carbs? Oh, right. Her kind of parents. Her kind of family. He could hear the hushed tones of Bianca's mother and brother from across the table, both voices sounding angry. Rick was glaring between her and Don between words, but Mr. Brown seemed to either be unaware of the fact or choosing to ignore it.

"So, Spencer," Bianca's father began. Reid hated the way the man said his name. As though they were friends. When he first heard Bianca say it, it had sent a shiver down his spine, one of excitement, a reaction he hadn't been able to control. This was more like a shudder. "What exactly do you do with the FBI?"

"I'm with the Behavioral Analysis Unit." He considered adding _sir,_ but decided that word was meant for someone you could respect. With every minute any admiration he could've had for Bianca's father was diminishing.

"So analyze my behavior, then." If Reid had a nickel for every time someone said that, he could buy the BAU a second jet.

It would've been so easy to rattle off the things he'd noticed about Don Brown. The profile came together in his mind with little effort. _I can tell you that you hardly spend time at home. You don't know the most basic things about your family, and you're completely insensitive to the important ones. It's obvious from your beer gut that at some point you were a heavy drinker, though Bianca would've told me if you were an alcoholic. And you don't seem like a drunk, so you're probably the kind of man who has one nearly every day, telling yourself that you deserve it after all the hard work you put in and the things you have to put up with._

 _Except you really don't work all that hard. You're a corporate lawyer who's firm was only 16.2 miles from your house. You could've brought work home to do, but instead you arrived early and stayed late, which tells me you were just looking for an excuse to avoid going home. You have a nice watch, and a new motorcycle jacket, but one that's been used on a bike before. All those things must've been expensive, but you told your daughter to take out student loans rather than helping her with tuition, which tells me you're cheap and materialistic. And your wife has looked your way five times in the last two minutes, but you can't be bothered with her or your son, who seems to clearly have some pent up rage._

But Reid just forced a smile. "Sorry, but I typically consult on crime scenes. It's hard to profile only a person, especially one you've just met," he lied.

"See, Bianca, you could've done something like that with a psychology degree. Or gone on to med school. But you did charity work instead," Ann lamented, the whispered argument with her son apparently over. Rick was in the corner, eyes narrowed, looking like a sulking teenager.

"Mom, _please_. We've talked about this before. This is what I want to do."

"At least you didn't major in English. There are no jobs in that field." He doubted she understood the things her daughter could do with words. Bianca tried to steer the conversation back to simple small talk, as Spencer observed their family dynamic. What must it have been like to grow up in that house? On the surface, things didn't seem all that bad. It took close examination to notice the dysfunction. The way her father disregarded everyone but himself, the way her mother gave a quiet disapproval, her brother's barely-concealed anger. The seemed like the kinds of people who would keep up appearances- friendly to strangers, probably volunteered for a few school events, went out on weekends and vacations. But at home, tempers could let loose, feelings could be stepped on, and accusations slung like slingshots.

As though on cue, he watched it happen in front of him. Rick was sucking the bottom of his drink through the straw loudly, when Ann turned to him. "Stop that. There are other people around."

"Shut up," her son snapped.

"Hey. You don't take that tone of voice with your mother!" Don hissed.

"Stop yelling at me!"

"Both of you, stop. We're in public," Mrs. Brown said.

"This isn't yelling! You want me to show you yelling, I'll _show_ you yelling!"

"FINE!" Rick roared, pushing the glass from the table. Every eye in the room turned their way, the waiter poking his head out from the door labeled _Employees Only_ to see what was going on. Bianca rose from her chair hastily, her eyes clouded and her face rigid.

"Don't you get up," her father scolded. "We came here all the way here, you don't get to just run off. Sit down with your family." She sat, staring down at the floor, blinking away tears. Reid couldn't help but glance at Rick occasionally. How could he look so much like Bianca, and be so drastically different? How was it that she was related to _any_ of these people?

The meal was finished quickly, with no more discussion. Mr. Brown paid the bill, and they hurried out the door and back on to the street.

"What have I told you about acting like that in public?" Don asked his son, raising his voice. He grabbed at Rick's arm.

"Shut up and leave me alone!" He swatted away his father's hand.

"You are twenty years old! You need to grow up and start acting like an-"

"I'LL KILL YOU!" The son's voice echoed off the buildings, pedestrians on the sidewalk quickly darting across the street to the other side. Rick made no move, just stood glaring at Don with a challenge in his eyes. Mrs. Brown was watching with her hands on her hips, and Bianca turned away.

"Come on," she said, grabbing Reid's hand.

"Don't you do that Bianca!" her father spat. "You always do that! We came here to see you, and you're acting like you want nothing to do with us! You think _you_ have it so bad? You're lucky! There are kids out there who have parents that beat them and abandon them! I'm sure your boyfriend can you tell about that!"

Reid whirled around, locking eyes with the older man. "Actually, you know what, _I can_. But I can also tell you about parents who don't know how to be anything other than selfish, the kind that only visit their daughter if it's convenient for them because they were so close to the city it would've been rude not to. And the kind of parents who understand nothing about their children, and who put their reputation before the mental health of their kids. And the parents who are in denial? Those are the parents I talk to, telling them that their son grew up to be a serial killer, and maybe if they'd given a damn they would've noticed the warning signs sooner. "

The older man took a step backwards, but the words just kept coming. "Yeah, there are some horrible parents out there, but you don't have to beat someone to leave scars, and you don't have to abandon them to do irreparable damage. And as for Bianca, I _am_ her boyfriend, and I happen to think very highly of her. I also happen to have an IQ of 187, and work as an FBI profiler, so I'd like to think my judgment is pretty good. Now, if that's all you have to say, I'm going to take your daughter's hand, and we're going to leave. There's a metro stop two blocks on your left." Don said nothing, just stood there fuming. "That's what I thought."

He turned on his heel, and pulled Bianca along with him, away from the voices now rising again. Spencer walked briskly, trying to put as much distance between himself and the Brown family before he could go back and do something stupid. They'd been walking for a while before he realized Bianca was crying. She was crying- crap. Was he crying because of her family? Or because of _him_?

"Bianca?"

She wiped her eyes, taking a few slow, shaking breaths in. "I-I'm sorry. This isn't f-fair of me."

"What are you talking about?"

"My family. Today. Everything." Her bottom lip quivered again. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to come. I thought it would be easier with you there. But… but they couldn't behave for one _fucking_ day." He'd never heard her swear like that before, and it served only to worry him more.

"Hey, hey. It's okay. It's okay, really. I couldn't let you do that alone. Bianca, when you called me this morning, you sounded so scared. You never sound that scared, not even when we were going after Okello in New York."

She put her hands on his chest, balling up his shirt in her fists as she clung to him. "I just don't know what to do with them. They always, always ruin things."

"Well, _we're_ not ruined. You and me. Bianca Brown, you have stared down warlords and congressmen and all kinds of crazy things. You grew up with two men who I'm fairly certain are a narcissist and a sociopath, respectively. And you're still here. They can't see how special you are. You see the best in everyone, and you believe the best of every thing. You're always giving, always thinking of the people around you. I told you about my mother and my addiction, and you never once judged me. Nothing your family can do is going to make me love you less."

She pulled him down, kissing him square on the mouth, hard. It was frantic and fast, his face wet from the tears still trailing down her cheeks. He wrapped his hands around her waist, the feeling of her fingers in his hair making him think he needed something to steady himself. She'd never kissed him so urgently, _needed_ him so much, and when he pulled back he had to catch his breath.

"I've been wanting to do that all day," he told her.

She gave him a tiny smile, rubbing her eyes again. "Yeah?" Bianca was quiet a moment before she said, "Spencer, do you really think he's a sociopath?"

"Your brother? I mean, I'm not a psychiatrist, so I can't make a diagnosis or anything. But I've seen quite a few over the years. Does it matter?" It was like she'd said once before. Defining it wouldn't take away the years of pain, the fear she felt when she walked into her house wondering if she was walking into a war zone that day. It wouldn't change the fact that the people who she'd been born to had been anything but familial, or that she was so broken by the time she reached high school, or that they'd that left their daughter to be raised by teachers and fictional characters and her own compassion.

Bianca shook her head. "You're my family now. That's all that matters."

His heart swelled. Compared to the rest of that day, hearing her say that, believing that, was the easiest thing in the world.

* * *

If Bianca had been shocked to hear JJ had been forced to leave the BAU, she was even more surprised to hear that the unit had taken an Academy trainee out on a case with them.

"Her name is Ashley Seaver, though that's not her original surname. She took her mother's maiden name after her father was arrested."

"I can't imagine what it must be like to find out your dad is a serial killer," Bianca said. She was curled up on the coffee table across from Reid's leather couch, where he sat, shaking out a bag of Skittles into his hand.

"I know. But even though he killed all those women, she still can't bring herself to hate him."

Bianca wasn't sure what to think of that. On one hand, that was admirable of Seaver. On the other, it made her feel worse about her own family.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, sensing her discomfort.

"I was just thinking about my own family. I mean, what does that say about me?"

Spencer looked up from the pile of colored candy in his hand, confused. "What does what say about you?"

"I mean, my parents aren't psychopaths. It's not that they couldn't love me… they just… didn't, I guess. And I still haven't been able to forgive them. If Seaver still loves her dad, and he killed people, shouldn't I be able to at least forgive mine?" She wrung her hands together, feeling guilty and unable to meet his eyes. It wasn't fair, if she talked about compassion and kindness but couldn't practice either.

"I don't think that's necessarily true. I mean, it's like you said. Your parents were capable of empathy and love. But they didn't show it. When I was in Las Vegas, and I saw my dad again, it was the same way. I was so angry at him, and even after I found out he'd cared enough to keep tabs on me all those years, it didn't change the fact that he never cared enough to write or to call or to visit me. He left an eight year old alone with a wife he knew wasn't well. And when I had to send her away, he wasn't there. Even though my mom couldn't always remember who I was, and some days she didn't get out of bed, and she thought that the government was spying on us sometimes… she was there, you know? He wasn't. At the end of the day, that was all that mattered."

She considered that. _At the end of the day, that was all that mattered._ A kid didn't care about who looked for articles about them, or who paid the bills. They noticed who was there for them, and who wasn't. They had both been let down by adults who had forced them to grow up too fast, and parents who didn't understand the meaning of the word. Just two broken people, trying to build a home.

Bianca hopped off the coffee table, and sat down next to him. "Can I meet your mom sometime?" She'd been meaning to ask permission for a while. There was an innate curiosity, a desire to see the person who had raised him, had made the man sitting beside her.

Spencer swallowed hard. "I don't know if that's a good idea. Are you sure you want to? I mean, you know how sick she is…" His voice spoke in the language of apprehension, and she thought she understood the translation. _Are you sure you want to meet someone who sees things that aren't there? You don't have to do this. I want to protect her, and I want to protect you._

She leaned into him, pulling her feet up onto the couch. "Even though she was sick, she loved you. And you love her. That much is obvious. Spencer, you met my family. There's no possible way she can be worse than that. My brother has threatened to kill people since he was nine. My mother thinks that mental illness is a fancy way of saying attention-seeking. And my dad, well, you two had quite the heart-to-heart."

"Does he hate me now?"

Her father handed out hate with ease, finding new things to dislike every week: Democrats, feminists, Black History Month, the neighbor's kids, soccer teams. In her lifetime there were only a handful of things she had done that Mr. Brown had ever approved of.

"I don't know. They haven't called since, but my guess is that if you asked his permission to marry me he wouldn't agree. But if a guy thought I needed my dad's blessing for anything, then it would be pretty clear he doesn't know me," she laughed, trying to make light of it. Saying it made her wonder what would happen, if someday he wanted to marry her. It was too soon to think about anything like that, she reminded herself. And yet, it was easy to think about. She would be more than happy to spend her whole life by his side. Bianca only hoped that she hadn't just given him the impression that she someday expected that.

To her relief, he chuckled. "I guess you're right. You know, maybe the next time I get some time off, we could fly to Vegas together, and you could meet my mom. I might be a bit biased, but she's pretty amazing. She's funny, and she loves books, and she always worries about me too much. Her name is Diana."

Diana Reid. "I would be an honor to meet her."

* * *

"How do you feel about UNICEF?"

"I'm glad they exist, and I think they deserved that Nobel Prize in 1965. I'm also grateful that their trick-or-treat for UNICEF initiative guarantees me another excuse to continue participating in the annual festivities of Halloween."

"Well, my job is one of several non-profits participating in a fundraising gala for UNICEF on Saturday night. If you're free, I've got two tickets?"

"You're asking me to go with you?"

Bianca laughed into the phone. "Well, my love, it's either you or Ivy, the girl who takes my coffee order at Swing's. But I'd much rather dance with you."

"Oh. There's dancing involved?" Spencer asked.

"We don't have to, if you don't want to. But it is formal. And I do really, really want to go with you. I don't have a dress to match Ivy's pink hair."

As far as he knew, there wasn't a case that weekend, so plans were made to meet at 7 on Saturday night. It was exciting, the thought of going somewhere formal with him. Every time they were together, she discovered new things about him, chapters yet to be read. She wanted to see how he looked dressed up, how he danced, how it would feel to sway in his arms. Sometimes she wondered if she would ever feel she knew enough about him. True to his word, he picked her up at 6:58, insisting on driving if they were going to be out so late at night.

Spencer stepped out from the old car, and she took in the sight of him in a suit. It reminded her of a James Bond movie, a sleek black jacket and bow tie. "Wow. I didn't even know you owned a bow tie," Bianca found herself saying. "You look great."

"There's a first time for everything," he replied. "Speaking of which…" His cheeks turned pink, as he walked around the car to where she stood. There was another answer she had - how he would react to seeing her in that dress. It was a pale blue, with lace cap sleeves and a tulle skirt that brushed the pavement. She twirled around on the sidewalk, letting him see the way it spun and how the high lace collar fell away to a low back. "You- you look amazing," he stammered. "You're beautiful."

She laughed. "You can thank Mrs. Ngyuen in apartment 317. This dress looked very different when I found it at the thrift store." She tried to not think about the garishly puffy sleeves the seamstress had replaced. Instead she glanced at Spencer's feet. "Are those your Converse?"

"Should I have worn something else?"

"No, actually, I was kind of counting on that. Otherwise this would've looked a little odd." Bianca lifted the hem of her dress, revealing a pair of white high tops. He flashed her a grin, and held open the door of the car for her. Everything about him gave her butterflies still, and every smile of his made her think her chest might burst, the medical report confirming cause of death to be an abundance of happiness.

They walked arm in arm through the parking lot and into the building, a large event center that had been decorated in strands of shimmering lights, blue balloons, and white paper stars. A semicircle of cloth covered tables wrapped around a dance floor, each one dotted with placards announcing table numbers and names. They took their seats once he found the card labeled _Miss Bianca Brown and Dr. Spencer Reid,_ wedged between _Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Arruzo_ and _Professor Muna al-Abdallah._

The professor was an older woman, who taught Arabic at Georgetown and advocated for Syrian refugees, the Arruzos were an Italian couple; he worked at an HIV/AIDS clinic and she was a kindergarten teacher. They made polite conversation through dinner, and Bianca introduced him to her boss, a burly middle-aged man who had only nine fingers.

Mr. Janowski, she explained to him, never told the same story twice, and nobody could say for sure how what really happened to his right ring finger. He'd lost it in the war, it had been bit off by a snapping turtle in his childhood, he'd been born without one, he traded it for his freedom in a prison camp. Bianca tried to keep a straight as Spencer asked the man progressively prying questions in an effort to determine the truth, falling just short of an interrogation. For his part, Janowski gave progressively evasive answers, and she'd never seen Spencer so determined to get information from someone.

At some point, a black-clad band had made their way up to the stage in the front of the room, and couples were slowly making their way from the tables to the floor. "I don't suppose they take requests for Mozart?" Reid asked, sounding disappointed.

"I don't think we'll be hearing any piano solos tonight," she conceded. "But they'll probably play a few slow songs. I don't think I've been to a dance yet where they haven't played the _The Time of My Life._ " She glanced over at the band, playing the 70's classic _Oh What a Night,_ and shook her head. "I feel like I'm in high school again. This was the first song they played at our senior prom. Wait, did you go to prom?"

"It went past my bedtime," he said plainly.

"Oh, then you have to dance just one song," she begged. Spencer tried to protest, claiming he had no idea how to dance. Somewhere like this, she explained, it was merely a matter of jumping up and down or stepping in a slow circle. Neither skill nor experience necessary.

"I don't know. I mean, we've gone out to a few bars and nightclubs as a unit. And while everyone else dances and gets drinks, I'm usually the one who watches the coats in the corner and hopes for someone to ask me about _Star Trek_ trivia."

"I know what that's like. When I was in in grad school, my friends used to drag me out to clubs with them. I can still remember them asking, 'Bianca, how do you expect to meet a guy if you don't go to bars?' And I always told them I wasn't looking to meet any guy who spent all his nights hanging out in a bar. If I wanted to meet someone, I'd start at a library or something."

"With enough luck, we would've run into each other eventually. There's an estimated 119, 478 libraries in the United States, which puts the odds of us being in the same one far better than being in the same bar at the same time." Yes, that was the man she loved, who would sooner rattle off statistical probabilities than go bar-hopping. She had started to reach for him when a well-manicured hand landed on his shoulder. She watched as he turned to a blonde woman in a fitted red dress. The stranger had curves in all the places Bianca didn't, and stood easily several inches taller than her.

"Hi. I saw you sitting over here. I came here without a date. Are you too busy to join me for just one song?" she asked, leaning towards him to be heard over the music, her curled hair falling over her shoulder.

He gulped, and Bianca held her breath as he stared at the woman, stammering out a reply. "Um, I'm kind of here with my girlfriend. So, uh, I'm sorry."

The blonde woman glanced over at Bianca, who was seated next to Mr. Arruzo. She gave a short, self-conscious wave. "My mistake," the woman said, dejected. "I didn't realize you were with someone." She apologized, and made her way across the room to a different table.

"She's pretty," Bianca commented. It wasn't an accusation, merely an observation.

"She is," Spencer agreed. "But she's not you." When he looked at her, it didn't matter that she barely broke five feet, or that her hair was far too short to curl. He looked at her like she was something worth noticing, and never wanted to stop. As for herself, she was disappointed by sonnets that compared a lover to a summer's day, because no metaphor ever seemed to do justice to his expressive eyes or his jawline or that mega-watt smile she never got tired of seeing.

The band switched tempo, a slow cover of a classic ballad, and he held his hand out to her, rising from his chair. "May I have this dance?" He gave her a lovely, uneven smile that tugged at her heart. They strolled to the edge of the floor, where he wrapped one arm around her waist, letting it rest on the small of her back, his fingers warm against her skin. She placed one hand around his neck, the lacing the other through his fingers, as she let her forehead fall against him. He pulled her close, rocking them in a steady, gradual circle to the rhythm of the song.

Bianca lifted her head from his chest at one point, gazing up at him. He'd closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, she pressed her mouth to his, kissing him slowly, as if it were the first and the last time she ever would. When Spencer was concerned, there was never really enough time. All too soon, the music changed, and he pulled away from her, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

She strained to hear the notes coming from the guitar on the stage, quickly mingling with the sounds of the drums and the keyboard as his expression changed to one of recognition.

"I actually know this one!" he exclaimed. _Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnny Ray, South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio…_

"And I'm guessing you've memorized all the words as well?" she laughed. He nodded, too caught up in the fast-paced lyrics to verbally reply. Of course he knew _that_ song. Taking her hand, he spun her in circles, never once messing up the words, Billy Joel's history finding the perfect place in present day. They laughed, caught up in something only they understood, a feeling that they alone could lay claim to.

It was nearly midnight when they trekked back to the parking lot, Bianca holding up the hem of her dress to avoid dragging it through the gravel, relieved that she'd chosen to wear Converse instead of heels. She collapsed into the passenger seat, overcome with the sort of exhaustion that accompanies some of the best days, when life has been lived to its fullest extent. She nodded off quickly, her head resting on the cool pane of the window, Spencer glancing over at her from time to time and wishing that there was no need for sleep, wishing that they had just a few more hours in the day. He could hold onto her forever, and it still wouldn't be long enough.

* * *

 _"What I'm not sure about is if our lives have been so different from the lives of the people we save. We all complete. Maybe none of us really understand what we've lived through, or feel we've had enough time." – Kazuo Ishiguro_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Thank you for reading chapter 10! I sort of can't believe I've written so much for this particular chapter. A few people have asked/commented about Bianca's family, and I thought it would be a good time to bring them into the story... despite the fact they're quite uninvolved in Bianca's life. I think there's a sort of understanding between people who have grown up in broken homes, of what family is or isn't, and I think they would both get that. Naturally, Seaver's family made an interesting comparison.**

 **The last ten chapters have been all about bringing Bianca and Spencer together, and I hope you've enjoyed them. Thanks so much for continuing to read this story! Thank you ahowell1993, ripon, and sarahmichellegellarfan1 for taking the time to write such lovely reviews for the last chapter. I'm grateful to You Can Go Your Own Way, hfcmfan2013, Brown-Eyed-Mauraderette** (do you solemnly swear you are up to no good?) **,** **and Nonitk for favoriting/following this story.  
**

 **I'm guessing most of you have noticed by this point that the quotes appear sporadically, breaking up the chapters into chunks of time. Rather than use them at the beginning and end of every chapter, and I wanted to use them to tie together different "sections" of the story. For example, they divide up the time the BAU spends in New York on the case from the time period when Spencer and Bianca are just getting to know each other, and another set of quotes separates that time period from the section where the two are becoming more comfortable in their relationship.**

 **I think that's worth mentioning before I post the next chapter.  
**


	11. 11) The Space Between

_"Between hello and goodbye is I love you." – Jarod Kintz_

* * *

"Is there a particular reason you're wearing sunglasses in a library?" she asked him, glancing away from the shelf. Usually Bianca could turn, her finger holding her place on the shelf, and find him standing nearby as he rapidly turned the pages of various volumes. Today though, he was hunched over with his hands pressed to his forehead and sunglasses on. She thought he'd taken those off when they came inside.

"It's… hey, did you know that light? Visible light, travels at different wavelengths? The… spectrum of visible light is usually? 400 to 700 nanometers? But light also has… a luminous efficacy the source? Produces light? Fluorescent lights… typically use short-wave ultraviolet light? And have usually 50-100 lumens per watt? Making them more efficient… and brighter? But they also flicker at an undetectable frequency? Which can cause vertigo, headaches and other health problems?" His usual rapid rambling was now sluggish and strained, like it was painful to speak each word. Every pause came out sounding like a question as he tried to speak in an even tone.

Bianca looked up at the ceiling lights. They were bright, though she didn't think they were strong enough to produce a headache, at least not so quickly. They'd only arrived ten minutes ago. "Spencer? Do you want to go outside?" she tried.

He shook his head carefully. "No. No, I just… can we go?" Reid, wanting to leave without checking out any books? Something was definitely up. But Bianca agreed, and they made their way back to his apartment. He didn't bother to turn on the lights, and she watched as he pulled the curtains over his windows before collapsing onto the couch. She tried to move as quietly as possible, and sat beside him gingerly as he was shrugging out of his cardigan and rolling his shirtsleeves up.

"What's going on? You don't look okay."

"It's fine, he mumbled, yanking off the sunglasses and pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes.

"Spencer," she said firmly.

"It's just a headache, it's fine."

"It looks like a lot more than just a headache. You couldn't stand to be in that library at all, any light is driving you crazy, and I haven't seen you touch a book in a few days!"

He groaned, leaning into the couch. "It's just a headache. I've been getting them for weeks. They usually only last a few days."

"A few days?" she repeated, incredulous. When it came to pain, _only_ was something you followed with words like _minutes_ and _hours,_ but never _days_ and certainly not _weeks._

"It started just before I left for Miami. I went to see someone though."

"Is that when you got the bracelet?" she asked, gesturing to the yellow beads he'd been wearing around his wrist.

"I got in from a faith healer."

Bianca tilted her head. This was Reid, who believed in logic and reason above all else, who had more PhDs than most people had children. "You went to see a faith healer about your headaches? You didn't tell me that when you got home." With every exchange, things seemed more and more out of place.

"I don't have to tell you everything that happens when I'm away!" he snapped. Bianca tensed, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I- I didn't mean that. My head just hurts a lot, okay? The healer was the guy who ran the soup kitchen. He gave it to me, said that it was the spirits of the dead that were bothering me. Ghosts that I carried around from my job."

She didn't believe in psychics and superstitions, but that sounded eerily possible. He always felt things so deeply, and she knew his work made that difficult. It wasn't hard to imagine victims and unsubs haunting his mind, robbing him of both sleep and sanity. "Do you believe that?"

Reid wrung his hands together. "No. Maybe? I don't know. I'm not crazy though! I'm not."

She touched a hand to his shoulder, lightly, and spoke with as much compassion as she could muster. "My love, I didn't say you were. I just want to make sure you're okay. Have you gone a doctor?"

He nodded, taking care not to move his head too quickly in any direction. "Yeah. They ran tests, but they said there was nothing to explain it. Nothing physical, at least." When he turned to face her, there was fear in his eyes. "They thought it was… they thought maybe it was psychologically caused. But it's not, I mean, it can't be. It's _not_ that."

She understood what he was trying to say, and why he had been so reluctant to mention anything. His conviction was the only thing standing between him and the thing he feared most. "Maybe it's not," she said.

"I know what that looks like, I watched my mom go through it, and this isn't the same. It's just – it's just not." He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as much as he was her. She trusted his opinion though, and if he said it wasn't that, she believed him.

"So maybe you just need to see a different doctor. It might help to get a second opinion. There could be someone who has more experience, or maybe someone who could run a different test. I know it can't be easy," she said, remembering his deliberate aversion to painkillers. "But if it's just pain, there has to be a physical explanation. It is just pain, right?"

Spencer opened his mouth, hesitant. "Yeah. Of course," he said after a moment. "It's just pain. No hallucinations- or dizziness, or anything." Bianca waited, wondering if there was something he wasn't telling her, but he stayed silent and she hoped that whatever was going on, someone could help him.

* * *

They had seen each other only sparingly since the library. He'd snapped at her, frustrated by both his body's betrayal and his doctor's inability to diagnose the cause of it. Reid knew he needed to see her again, but something always seemed to get in the way; his work or hers, plans with his team, the weather, his headaches. After he flew back from upstate New York, he finally worked up the nerve to call her. To his surprise, Bianca sounded genuinely glad to hear from him, inviting him over to her apartment.

"How's the team doing?" she asked, pushing her door closed. "You haven't talked about them in a while." It probably didn't help that he had hadn't talked to her about _anything_ in a while.

"They're- they're good. Prentiss has been a little on edge lately, but otherwise things are good. Thanks for asking."

"Of course! I was been hoping maybe I'd get to see them again sometime. They were so nice, and I know how much they mean to you." She was supposed to mean something to him too, but when had he last let her know that? The most recent example he could muster was the night he'd gone to the gala with her, when she'd kissed him slowly in that blue dress and he thought that maybe dancing wasn't such a scary thing if it meant you could hold someone you loved in your arms for so long.

"Do you want some coffee or something?" she asked cheerfully. "I was just about to make some. I bought a whole bag of sugar yesterday, just in case you came by this week." Why wasn't she mad at him?

He bit back questions and remorseful apologies to decline her offer politely. "No thanks. I've been trying to lay off the caffeine. I was actually hoping to talk to you."

She shook her head, a small laugh leaving her lips. _No_ , he thought, _don't do that. I haven't earned that laugh. I don't deserve that smile_. "I feel like we've been here before. Why is it that we always end up having serious conversations at my place?"

He didn't have a good answer to that question, but then, lately he didn't have nearly half the answers to anything like he used to. He just sat in her living room, feeling uncomfortable and deciding to get straight to the point. "I guess it's just because of this case. There was an unsub who preyed upon those with a history of mental health issues and a lack of confidence. We were able to save the last victim, but it was still just… awful, that someone one take advantage of something so personal. And that last girl, she was recovering from an eating disorder. So… so, we haven't talked much and I just thought…"

Her eyes softened, and something about the tenderness they held made him feel so guilty. "I see. I'm glad you wanted to check on me. But I'm doing good, really. I've been writing a lot, and taking care of myself. When my coworkers go out for ice cream, I even go with them sometimes. Things are getting easier. But thank you, for worrying about me. I'm okay."

He knew that, he knew that it had been years since she'd had any major relapses, but there was still something about seeing those girls that unsettled him. It was too close, their vulnerability and willingness to trust, their parent's deep-seated denial. Spencer couldn't imagine finding out that someone Bianca had put her faith in had hurt her.

Oh. Right. Didn't _he_ fit that description?

"What about you though?" she asked. "I know you haven't been feeling well lately. Have you gone to see any more doctors?"

"A few," he admitted. "They all said the same thing- I'm fine. Everything in my brain checks out as it should."

"Have the headaches gone away?"

He fidgeted in the chair, pulling at his knuckles. The head-splitting migraines were a strange phenomenon. Sometimes a whole week could go by with no trouble. But they never stayed away for long, and each time they returned it was like a bomb going off, exploding between his ears and making it impossible to focus in the aftermath. They were stealing his sleep and his ability to do his job, isolating him from his friends and his family and his girlfriend.

"Spencer," she said, reading his silence. "I love you. If I was struggling, you would want me to tell you, right? You'd want me to ask for help?" He couldn't deny that. "I'm not a doctor, but I'm willing to help you in any way that I can. I've been worried about you, too. I don't want something to happen to you. You mean the world to me."

Why couldn't he just tell her the truth? Why was this so hard for him? He couldn't shake the words of the first doctor, suggesting that maybe this was something psychosomatic, and he was nowhere near ready to admit that he could have what had robbed his mother of her senses. Developing schizophrenia would force him to surrender everything he'd spent his whole life working towards. Nothing had even happened to confirm those doubts yet, and he was already pushing away the woman who had accepted everything else he'd thrown at her. She'd handled her own family's madness, but was she really ready to handle his?

"How about we make a deal?" Bianca tried. "I'll make you some green tea- I'll even put sugar in it- and you tell me about the case in New York. I bought a copy of Rilke's _Duino Elegies_ from the secondhand bookstore on 17th street. We can read them together, and if you're still not feeling better after that, then we'll talk about what's going on with you. Okay?"

"Okay." Reid watched as she climbed up on the kitchen counter to reach the teakettle she kept in the top cabinet. When he was sure she wasn't looking, he buried his face in his hands, sighing. He was being weird again, trying to keep from distressing her and only making things worse. The dull pounding hadn't left his head since they landed back in DC, and all he wanted was to go back to his own place, turn off all the lights, and sleep in the quiet solace of his bedroom. If he did that though, if he left now, he wasn't sure when he would next be able to face her.

So he sat in place, fighting the pain until Bianca reappeared before him, two mugs of tea in hand, and a large tome of a book balanced precariously in the crook of her arm. He took the mugs from her and she sat beside him, her thin shoulder pressing against his side. How, he wondered, could someone so small always manage to seem so strong? She rested her head against his arm and flipped the book open.

"It's got the original German text in the back half, but you'll have to forgive me for reading the English translation," she said.

"No, that's okay. I don't think I'm up to translating right now." Trying to listen to a foreign language took brainpower he couldn't afford to waste. Reid closed his eyes, trying to shake the tension in his muscles as she began to read the first Elegy to him.

" _Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the Angelic  
Orders? And even if one were to suddenly  
take me to its heart, I would vanish into its  
stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but  
the beginning of terror…"_

* * *

Dr. Baker hadn't changed in the last few months. Her skin was still a deep caramel color, her long black hair divided into small braids and pulled back in a ponytail. She smiled kindly at Bianca, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she pushed the paper across the table towards her. "I think you should really consider this, Bianca. It would be an incredible opportunity for you."

Bianca stared at the sheet, reading over it quickly, the page confirming what Dr. Baker had just told her. It was an application for one of the UN's international law fellowship program. Fellows would spend two years in The Hague, studying under some of the most respected experts in that field. The courses were held in the Peace Palace, a grand building that looked like it belonged in another century. There were lectures, seminars, visits to international institutions all across the city. Everything from travel expenses to course materials would be paid for, and a stipend would be provided to help cover the cost of living in one of the most populated cities in the Netherlands.

"The program is taught entirely in French," Dr. Baker continued, "but I trust you're still fluent after spending over six years studying the language. The application deadline is next month. If you choose to apply, I'll write you a very strong recommendation."

A whole year in the Netherlands. She'd considered studying international law, and this would truly be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Living in The Hague, taking the train to Amsterdam or Leiden, meeting fellows from all over the world who shared her same passions. But two years there would mean two years away from here, away from Spencer. Could she do that? He'd been distant lately, but that made her think he needed her around more than ever.

"Thank you for bringing me this. I'd love to apply, I just need some time to think about it. I've finally gotten settled here, and it would be so strange to just pack up and leave."

The older woman raised an eyebrow. "Would being settled in have something to do with that boy?"

Her cheeks burned. "Well, sort of. We've been seeing each other for a while now, and I really like him."

"Now, if he had the chance to go do something he loved overseas, you'd want him to go, right?" She didn't have to imagine. He left every week, flying across the country to stop crimes and save lives. "You don't have to decide right away. Just apply, and see what happens. If you get in, then you can worry about that."

Bianca agreed. She and Dr. Baker chatted over coffee for a while, catching up on the little things and the big things, and the things that fell somewhere in the middle. The professor was so wise and maternal, and Bianca hadn't realized how much she missed that presence. She was grateful Dr. Baker had made the trip down to DC to visit her sister, and that she'd taken the time to call Bianca. As the afternoon drew to a close, she thanked the doctor for the coffee and the application, and they parted ways down separate streets. The evening breeze was cool, blowing her bangs in front of her eyes as she walked, and she wondered absent-mindedly if she should grow her hair out now that Spencer's was so short.

By the time she returned home, Bianca's apartment was bathed in soft orange light, the sunset filtering in through the window. The evening sky was clear, perfect for long walks down the avenues or through the parks of Washington. Those things weren't nearly as fun to do alone. She dialed his number, and pressed her cell phone against her ear, listening as it rang. They could walk, and she could tell him about the program, and they could think it through together.

"Hello?" Spencer's voice was raspy and tired.

"Hi, you. I called JJ earlier, trying to get ahold of you. She said you left the office early today. Are you sick?"

"It's nothing," he lied.

"No, it's not. You're having another migraine, aren't you?" The pause between them made her heart race. The period between flare-ups was getting shorter and shorter, and the pain only seemed to get worse. In the beginning he would wear sunglasses and avoid bright lights, but lately when his head started to throb he retreated to the privacy of his own apartment until the waves of agony subsided, and he would fight through the hours trying to survive the aftershocks.

"You could've told me. Why don't I come over?" she pleaded. It would assuage some of her unease if she could just see him.

"No, you don't need to do that," he said quickly.

Bianca balanced on the top of her sofa, staring out at the city. It had been only two weeks ago that he'd been in that same living room. The distance between them was steadily growing farther and farther apart, a reversal from the months they'd spent coming together after that first week in New York City.

"Spencer, please. Have you even eaten yet? Let me cook dinner for you. I'll come by, and we can catch up. Please let me take care of you."

"I can take care of myself," he grumbled, an unfamiliar edge in his voice.

"That's not what I meant."

A shaky exhale, then: "I'm sorry, B. I am. I didn't mean to snap at you. I just need some time on my own, okay? I don't really want to be around other people right now. If you're over here, I'll just end up yelling at you for something stupid, and then regretting it." She could picture him on the other end of the line, standing in his apartment, all the lights out and a hand pressed over his eyes. He sounded tense, agitated.

"You could never be stupid. I'm… I'm just scared. I don't know what's happening to you."

"I don't feel good, that's all. When I feel better again, we'll figure this out. But I'm exhausted. Right now, all I want is to sleep."

They exchanged a rushed goodbye, before he hung up. Bianca let her phone fall onto the cushions of the couch. What was happening to Spencer, and what was happening to them? It used to be so easy to talk to him, now every word was strained. The way things were going, it was like they spoke two different languages. She couldn't remember when he had first stopped seeking her out, or when she had stopped being able to decode the things he said. When had he last left her with some statistic, or sat with her on a park bench and read three books in the time it took her to read half of one?

One thing was certain- she hadn't felt this lonely since her first week in Washington DC.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **There's a lot of dialogue here, and I apologize for that, haha. But these scenes were very interpersonal, the two of them struggling to figure things out and to communicate. I think that Spencer had to work really hard to keep calm during work with all his migraines, and I imagine that being around Bianca, he's just exhausted from trying to think straight after a case. Being in pain is difficult, and it really takes a toll on a person's body and mind, and for all his genius, I don't think Reid would be an exception to that rule.**

 **As you might have noticed, things are starting to change again, and the plot is beginning to move in a new direction. I hope you'll stick with me through the next few chapters!**

 **Thank you very much to Jovie Black, POLICE in the BOX, Music4ever19, TwilightNinja00, Kakarot45, chibi-no-baka, kimikokimono, super-cool-flying-vampire-cows, Tangent4lyfe, and Tomnomlinson for favoriting/following the story.  
As always, I'm so grateful to ahowell1993, sarahmichellegellar, for reviewing the last chapter. I love hearing what you all have to say about the story!**

 **On a side note: Rilke is Rainer Maria Rilke, a Bohemian-Austrian poet. _Duino Elegies_ is a collection of ten long, lyrical poems written in the early 20th century while he was a guest of the Czech princess at Duino Castle. You can find all ten elegies online, in both English and German, and I definitely recommend giving them a look, they're absolutely gorgeous. **


	12. 12) An Empty Hallway

The keyboard was position in front of his armchair, and he was strangely proud of having carried it all the way from the music store in its bulky box.

"I'm ready to be wowed," Bianca said. She was perched on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs back and forth over the edge.

After their last phone call, when he'd lashed out at her, Reid spent the rest of the week feeling guilty. The headache had finally subsided, and he when he returned from Louisiana, he asked her to come over, with the promise of wowing her with his newfound musical ability.

He flashed her a grin, and flicked the keyboard on. How had the tune gone? The keys appeared in his mind, a pattern of notes and finger movements, Sammy's hands guiding his as he mimicked the music. It came easily, his fingers flying over the board, producing something harmonious that came with little effort. When he had played all he could remember, he slid his hand across the keyboard with a flourish, and Bianca applauded, hopping down from the counter.

"Is there anything you _can't_ do?" she laughed. "I had no idea you could play piano!"

"Me either, until yesterday," he confessed. "The boy whose parents had been abducted, his name was Sammy. He was autistic, and he communicated through pictures and symbols. It was fascinating, once we made sense of it. Music was his obsession, and he was really good at piano. That was the easiest way for him to say something, through music. He showed me how to play, and honestly… it was the most normal I've felt in weeks."

There was something about admitting that fact out loud that made it hit harder. All his life people had labeled him as a high-functioning autistic, claimed he Asperger's, or used autism to explain his habits and abilities. He'd never been tested, but in truth it didn't matter that much to him. He wasn't concerned with the autism spectrum, because schizophrenia had always been a much more pressing concern. What did that say about him though, that he was more comfortable playing piano with a child who couldn't respond to verbal cues than having conversations with people his own age?

"It was beautiful," Bianca said. "And I bet you really helped that boy. You're so good at connecting with people." She spoke to him so lovingly it almost hurt.

"Have you _seen_ me in social situations? I'm not conversational. I'm just awkward and - and weird!" His voice squeaked up an octave, as it often did when he was flustered.

"Maybe you're not good at making small talk at parties," she agreed, sliding onto the arm of the chair and rubbing his shoulder. "But you're so good at communicating with people who have a hard time talking otherwise. You've told me the stories yourself. Sammy, the woman with the dolls, that boy Owen. You understand people who've wanted nothing more than to feel like someone gets them."

He'd felt that way for as long as he could remember. After a lifetime of being bullied, beaten up, and ignored, Reid finally found a place where he could put his talents to work. Gideon had been one of the first to notice him, but even at the BAU there were times when Spencer felt out of place. "I know what it's like, to feel different. Being so smart, everyone has all of these expectations and ideas about who you are and what you'll be. But it's not that easy. Do you know how isolating it is, to have an IQ of 187? And to remember every single thing you see or hear?"

"Tell me about it, then."

He glanced away. "You wouldn't understand. I get excited about things most people can't even comprehend. I make jokes that nobody laughs at. And then _I_ get laughed at. I could've cured diseases or something but instead I chose to spend my days memorizing serial killers and their habits, and I can never shake those things out of my brain. I can't turn my thoughts off. It's like a curse."

"Hey." She placed a hand against his jawline, her thumb stroking his cheek. He couldn't turn off his thoughts, but she had a habit of clearing his head for him, every touch from her refocusing his attention. "I know it's hard for you. But you're making a difference. Maybe you're not like most people. But there are a lot of people who aren't like most. And everyone needs someone who understands. You do. You get it."

At that moment the only thing he wanted to understand was her. Analyzing a crime scene nowhere near as good as solving the riddle of her laugh. He put an arm around her waist, careful not to pull her down. When his head was filled with her, there was no room for mutilated bodies or pedophiles or geographic profiles. There was just dark hair and brown eyes; a pale face and her perpetually cold fingers clinging to him. Nothing but her knee-high socks and a Peter Pan collar and a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"You're so smart," she murmured, leaning closer to him, only centimeters between their faces. "And because of that, you're able to do things nobody else can. You can learn to play the piano in a single afternoon. You can quote books like nobody else I know can. You're kind. You make the people around you feel special. I wish you could see how _extraordinary_ you are. And I'm sorry that it feels so lonely sometimes, but you don't ever have to do this alone."

"I know," he said quietly. She placed a kiss on his forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat and hugging him around his neck. Here was someone who loved him, someone who wanted to understand him, and he just kept pushing her away, trying to protect her from the things that hurt him.

He kissed her with a desperate urgency. He _loved_ her. He loved her so much. He cared about her with such fervor that sometimes it felt like his ribs would collapse under the pressure, his whole chest aching. And he was so afraid of losing her, of hurting her. His mind kept playing tricks on him, headaches and hallucinations that made everything feel muddled, and it was impossible to see ahead.

Was this a transition, a time of tension before they adapted, before their relationship evolved? Or was this a coda, the passage of music precluding the end of something beautiful?

He was so afraid of losing her.

* * *

"Hi, Spencer, it's me. Um, I was just calling to see if everything was okay. I haven't heard from you in a while, and well, I saw that article online about the explosions and that sounds like something you would have to look into, and I don't know if it is or not, but-" Bianca stopped, inhaled deeply. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling. I miss you. And I hope you're okay. And I love you. Please call me back."

Having left the message on his voicemail, she placed her cell phone back on the counter, and paced the living room before circling back to pick up the letter instead. In the last two weeks, she'd read it a dozen times. _Mademoiselle Brown, nous sommes la plaisir de vous informer que vous avez été choisi pour le bourse à La Haye…. We are pleased to inform you that you have been chosen for the fellowship in the Hague…._

The application had gone through, but she never had imagined she would actually get in. Accepting that position would mean two years abroad, to study in a place hailed as the "international city of peace and justice." Two years that would most certainly not involve Spencer. His job, his family was here. Could she leave him behind? She could still remember her last weeks in New York, when it felt like she would drown in longing, waiting to close the distance between them. It had been one thing, when they lived miles apart, unable to reach the other for more than a day at a time. Now they were separated by a few blocks, and she couldn't remember the last time they'd talked so sparingly.

If she left, it might mean the end of their relationship. Despite the mess of missed calls and strained discussions she still wanted him. Spencer was the closest thing to family she had, the person she loved most. But what if she stayed? They were already falling apart, for reasons she still didn't understand. Was it the headaches? Or the stress of his job? Or maybe this was her fault. Had she said the wrong thing? Done something to upset him?

Bianca took her phone and the letter into her bedroom, pulling on a sweatshirt and burrowing under the warmth of the covers. _Was_ it her fault? Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, and she rubbed them away with the back of her hand. She wasn't sure anymore. One day, he was curt with her, prickly and unpredictable; and the next he was apologizing and trying to appease her. It was a strange and dizzying cycle, a roller coaster ride she wanted to get off of.

The two were in the same city, and yet she missed him. She missed the way things had been before, the days when she knew she could hold him, when he told her everything. What if that was as good as things would ever get? What if the very best of them was already behind them? They had been summer, vibrant and dazzling, but somewhere along the way the air had grown colder and they were falling like autumn leaves and crumpling in the dirt.

Her phone rang, and she snatched it up. "Spencer?" she gasped. "Are you okay? I just called you." Maybe he wasn't working tonight after all. She could finally talk to him about the fellowship, and figure out what was happening with them. The knot of uncertainty tangled in her chest would certainly unravel after a conversation with him.

To her dismay, his voice was brusque. "I got your message. I'm fine, but I just wanted to call to say that I won't be able to talk to you for a while. We're working a case, and Prentiss is missing. I'm sorry. I need to go. We can talk tomorrow, alright?"

"Okay, I just-" He hung up before she could finish. If Prentiss was missing, there was no telling what else would follow. That unit was his family, her absence would be felt as strongly as that of a missing sibling until they could bring her back safely. Spencer once told her that there were some cases that gave him a bad feeling from the start; a sort of sense that things weren't going to end well. Unnerving, that was the only way she could describe the premonition settling over her like a blanket. Something wasn't right.

Was there anything that _was_ right? Emily was gone, houses were being blown up, and she still didn't understand what was going on. The whole world seemed to be crumbling around her, the cornerstones of the life she had built in DC toppling like a house of cards. She sighed, leaning her head back against her pillows. Everything was terrifying and nothing seemed real.

When she was scared, when she didn't know what else to do, she prayed. This seemed as good a time as any to do so. Bianca clasped her hands together, closing her eyes to drown out the maddening world and collect herself. _I know he's not religious,_ she thought. _But wherever he is, and whatever he's doing, please keep him safe. Keep all of them safe. Please let them find Emily, and please let her be okay. Give me the courage to talk to him soon. And whatever is causing him so much pain, please heal him. Let him feel better. And let him know how loved he is. Just let him come home safely._

Growing up, there were nights she had fallen asleep sobbing silently into her pillow, praying for things to get better, begging God to fix her broken family and help her. She could remember them vividly, a dark bedroom, the sound of muffled shouting, and the wish for things to just end already. Bianca fell back onto her pillows now, in a dark and silent apartment, troubled by the parallel. Maybe, she thought, there were some prayers just too big to be answered.

* * *

Reid rolled over in the airplane seat, turning his face towards the inside of the couch. He could hear Morgan and Seaver talking quietly.

"Yeah," he was saying to her. "It does." _It_ being the insomnia and the nightmares that haunted each agent at one point or another.

A few months ago, he would've been sleeping. He would've been fast asleep, like Hotch was in the seat across from him. Tonight, he closed his eyes only for the privacy afforded automatically to those presumed to be napping. While there wasn't a headache keeping him awake, it was the thought of them that made him restless. They'd been getting worse - and the hallucinations, he still couldn't explain them. Nobody seemed to be able to. The words his team had been repeating echoed in his brain. _Paranoid schizophrenia. Hallucinations. Hearing voices. Psychotic break. Typically happens in a person's twenties. Genetic._

 _"I know this is a scary age for you,"_ Morgan had said. Scary didn't even begin to describe it. He was terrified. And then there was Prentiss. Her death still shocked him to the core, rattling his faith in his job. Every time his team was gathered together, he kept expecting her to walk into the room, laughing and making up some excuse for her tardiness; something like finally going to that Sin to Win weekend in Atlantic City. She'd never made it there. She'd never made it to Solaris either, he'd never get to see it with her. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye.

In one way or another, Spencer was sure he was losing his mind. If it wasn't the same sickness his mother had, his line of work was certainly going to do it. What had that healer said? _Ghosts are spoiling your head._ He wouldn't be surprised. There were too many ghosts to count, and not just the victims he hadn't been able to save. Unsubs too, like Tobias Hankel and Ryan Phillips and the Fisher King. Frank and Jane. Haley Hotchner. Riley Jenkins. Emily. And Gideon- was Gideon even alive? He felt like a ghost, even if he hadn't died yet. He was as good as dead, for all they knew. And JJ, when was the last time he'd seen her until she came to help them? He was losing so many people.

Bianca. What about her? Would she leave him? If he were being honest, he wouldn't be all that surprised if she did. He'd barely spoken to her this month. If he broke up with her, he wouldn't have to feel left behind again. But his heart whispered back that she wouldn't abandon him. Even if she were angry with him, even if he made her lonely, she'd still look at him with such compassion. And he didn't know how he could face that, face her. It would be so much easier if she would just hate him and get it over with.

Then there was that letter he'd seen on her kitchen counter, about a fellowship in the Netherlands. If they weren't together, he could bet she would go. What if she was better off without him? If he was going crazy, he couldn't put her through that. He knew exactly what it was like to watch someone you love lose their sanity. What was he going to do?

A thought came to him, as he finally drifted off to sleep. _I didn't get to say goodbye._ He would give her that, at least.

* * *

She could tell things were getting bad. He didn't call her often, and she saw him even less. His headaches were getting worse and still no doctor could explain it. Then, there was work, and his family slowly unraveling around him. He'd taken it so hard when JJ left, and when Prentiss had vanished she knew things were only going to get worse.

In the end, it was Garcia who told her. And she had cried; for Emily, for Spencer, for their team. But Spencer didn't ask her to come to the funeral, and so she stayed home. This seemed to be a family-only event, and she was like a distant cousin at best. Bianca figured Spencer would talk to her about it, but he kept to himself.

Her phone was unusually silent, her apartment always empty. On weekends she walked to get coffee alone, sitting on a stool and watching strangers walk past, imagining that he would be in that crowd, that he would stop and see her and come running through the door to explain that this was all a big misunderstanding. Where once his hazel eyes and messy hair had felt as familiar as the sky above her, she now had trouble remembering what it looked like when he smiled or how it sounded when his lips formed her name.

It wasn't until after the case in Portland that she finally saw him. She was stepping out for a run when she caught an unexpected flash of light brown hair and a lanky body slinking up from the stairwell. He looked so exhausted, walking down the hallway towards her door. She wanted to run to him, hold him, tell him she was there and he wasn't alone. And she would've, before. Now she wasn't sure if she should. It felt like reaching for a stranger.

Instead, she leaned against the doorframe and waited for him to come to a stop in front of her. "How do you feel?" Bianca asked uncertainly. She herself couldn't name exactly what she was asking about. How did his head feel? How did he feel about Emily? About the case? About her, about them?

"I don't know," was all he said. He looked at her, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "I'm just so tired, Bianca." The words fell heavily from his lips, graying echoes of previous sentiments. _So tired, so tired._ His shoulders slumped more than usual, like his body could no longer support the emotional burdens thrust upon him.

"Why don't you come in?" She gestured to the apartment inside. "I'll make coffee, and we can talk. Or we can just sit and watch old movies or something?" She waited, willing him to accept her invitation.

"I can't," he said. The anxious smile she had been forcing fell.

"What do you mean?" she asked, shaking her head to show him she didn't understand what was happening, as if that simple motion could shake away the doubt taking root within her.

"I mean I _can't,_ " he snapped. When had that sound become more frequent than his laugh? "I can't come in. I can't do this anymore."

Her breath caught in her throat. That couldn't be the reason he was here. It just couldn't. That was an impossible, ludicrous notion. "Please, Spencer. Let's just talk, okay? I haven't seen you in almost two weeks. I miss you. I'm worried about you. I know that Pren-"

"You _don't_ know," he interrupted. "You don't understand, because you can't. They're _my_ team, not yours. We already lost JJ, and now Prentiss is gone! I'm so _tired_ of losing people. What's the point of all this, if we can't protect each other? It's this unending devastation, wondering if we could've just done something more… if she would still be here if we had. You couldn't possibly understand what it feels like."

"I didn't mean it like that." How many times in the past month had they misunderstood each other?

"It doesn't matter anyways. Nothing is going to bring her back. Right now, I just… I need to be with my team. I need to be around people who do understand. Who understand this job, these losses, what it costs…"

"What are you saying?" she asked, her voice wavering. It mattered. It mattered. Of course it mattered, couldn't he see how much _he_ mattered, to her?

He exhaled. " What I'm saying is that… I don't have the time to… I mean - I can't keep doing this." Spencer waved his hand at the space between them. "Us."

"Oh." Bianca could feel the water rising in her eyes, and she forced herself to stand up straight and meet his eyes. That expression on his face - did it really pain him that much to talk to her, to even look at her?

"I'm sorry. I just… I'm so _tired_." Again with that word. _Tired._ Tired of you, tired of what we are - what we were. "And I need to focus on my work and on my team. They're the ones who matter. They're my family. I need to be around my family. And you wouldn't understand that either." The words may as well have been a punch. That wasn't fair. That wasn't fair, and he _knew_ it.

"I thought - I thought I should tell you in person. Sorry." He swallowed, shoved his hands into his pockets. For a second she thought he was going to say something else, but he just stood there, staring at the floor. "I uh, I need to go... Goodbye, Bianca," he said finally.

Bianca wrapped her arms around her body, imagining that it would be enough to keep her from falling apart right there in the doorway. Despite her efforts, the tears still came. She watched as Spencer turned to leave. She watched him take with him the memories that they'd collected over the last few months, the extended family she'd felt a part of, the greatest love she'd ever felt, and the greatest love she'd ever given. Her home walked down the hall, and out the door. He didn't even look back, not once.

"Bye," she whispered to the empty hallway.

* * *

 _Now is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning. - Winston Churchill_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I hope this all didn't feel too rushed. Season 6 is an interesting one, and I felt that from _Corazon_ onward, things happened very quickly on the show. There were only four episodes between that episode and _Valhalla_ so I tried to reflect that timing in this story. Reid was struggling with his migraines, with feeling different, and with losing Emily, all at once. **

**Thank you to Nevergonnafitin, bella rhodes, chrissy-reid-33** (for whatever reason FF won't let me put dots), **reallyjenn, and Clancy1018 for favoriting/following this story!  
I'm especially grateful to ahowell1993, and Clancy1018 (haha, I'm glad you ship it!), and sarahmichellegellarfan1 for reviewing the last chapter.  
**

 **Anyhow, I hope you all don't hate me now! I promise that I have a plan and I have a plot, and all will make sense soon enough. I just wanted to try and keep as canon a timeline as possible, and for that to work, I need Bianca to be away for a little while. As Churchill said, this is only the end of the beginning. Not the end.  
**


	13. 13) Salute

_"To respect the dignity of a relationship also implies accepting the end when it comes. Except in my mind, except in my dreams, where the aftertaste of her still lingers." – Andre Brink_

* * *

Five weeks in a row he'd shown up on JJ's doorstep. Five weeks in a row she let him in, let him sob on the living room couch while she held his hand. Sometimes he worried he was becoming a burden, but, he reminded himself, that's what family did. They were there for each other. Reid still saw the rest of his team day in and day out, but JJ rarely saw them anymore. Maybe she needed to talk as much as he did, he consoled himself. And he, well he figured it was best if he wasn't left alone.

Lately his body itched for something he hadn't taken in nearly four years. It would be so easy, to procure a bottle. He could claim it was for his leg, that he'd aggravated the old injury. As for the needles, those would be even easier. He thought about it. Oh yes, he thought about it far too often. An eidetic memory left the sensation of every high crystal clear in his mind. One little push of a plunger, and he wouldn't have to think about everything he'd lost. His friend. His mind. His sanity.

And _her_. She was an entirely different problem, every bit as addictive as Dilaudid and just as tempting. How many nights had he sat in bed awake, remembering every conversation they'd had? He couldn't shake the memories of her touch, how good it felt to hold her in his arms, how when he kissed her his brain was blissfully blank and every sense trained on her.

The familiar feeling would bubble up in chest, warm and strong. Until his mind betrayed him again, replaying instead the tears in her eyes as she stood in the doorway trying not to cry in front of him, her hands wrapped around her small and shaking frame, the pain in her voice as she _begged_ him to stay. And how he'd walked away with everything he'd given her that year, walked away from the only person outside of his team who made him feel understood and safe. The feeling in his chest turned cold, heavy, and hollow.

Reid stared at his bedroom wall, with the sinking knowledge that he wouldn't be falling asleep anytime soon. Dilaudid would let him sleep. Sleep, forget, ignore. And when it wore off, it would all come crashing back, coupled with the shame and guilt that had always followed his drug use.

He was an addict in need of a fix, but exactly what was broken he couldn't say. Taking inventory of his life resulted in too many answers to that question. His heart, having let go of Bianca. His faith in his work, having been unable to save Prentiss. His family, now missing two vital members. His head, constantly pounding until his skull threatened to crack open.

It would be so easy to get just a quick hit. Obtain the supplies, make the quick tourniquet around his arm, push the plunger, and let it all float away until he was empty and hollow and high. No high lasted forever though, that was the bitter irony of pleasure. It came and made things feel better before it vanished, leaving you feeling worse than before.

That was true of love and all other drugs, natural or manufactured. Nothing could take away the pain forever, it could only provide a temporary escape.

Sleep wasn't going to come, and Reid decided he could no longer trust himself to be alone. With all the willpower he could muster, he traded his pajamas for his wrinkled clothing and grabbed his car keys. If he couldn't stay here without the constant pull of temptation, he needed to leave.

Make that _six_ weeks in a row he had shown up on JJ's doorstep crying.

* * *

Three weeks ago, after he walked out of her life, she had started packing. Keeping busy prevented her from dwelling on the still-fresh wound she felt in her heart. The first day was the worst. There was anger and there was sorrow, but she wasn't sure precisely who she was mad at or what made her feel so sad. There were too many possible answers, options that all left her feeling cold as they piled up like snow in the winter, a white sheet to bury her heart under.

After four days, the outrage was replaced by doubt. It was so hard to stay mad at someone who seemed so broken, despite the verbal barbs he'd hit her with. _I need to be with my family. And you wouldn't understand that either._ Those words still ignited a trace of enmity in veins, but then she wondered if those words held any merit. After all, she had been the one to tell him she didn't have a close relationship with any of her kin, hadn't she? For all her understanding of the concept that there was a sort of family you chose – not the ones you were born to – perhaps she really didn't grasp it, not in a way that counted.

Bianca replayed their conversations, searching something she had done wrong, something she had said to make him feel that way about her, but she struggled to come up with something that made sense. There must have been _something_. When she wasn't looking for an explanation, she was trying to let go. That was one of her shortcomings, one she had acknowledged in middle school, when she finally started to find people she could trust and rely on, people who cared about her in ways her family didn't. She had been starved for affection and acceptance back then, longing to find those she could love and be loved by. As a result, she became attached to people too easily, and had a great difficulty saying goodbye.

In her frantic efforts to occupy her mind with other matters, she had worked things out with her landlord in DC- yes, she could return to the building, no he couldn't promise she'd have the same apartment- and divided up her things into two piles: storage and suitcase. It was unnerving to see her whole life neatly piled up in boxes, as if everything that had transpired in the last few months could be so neatly put away. Living was anything but neat; it was messy and complicated.

Bianca had made her rounds, saying a temporary farewell to friends and coworkers, getting coffee one last time at Swing's, sending a card to the BAU office (though she'd balked and chosen not to sign her name). Now she sat in the Baltimore International Airport, staring out the window of the terminal and wondering if she'd made the right choice. In two hours she would be back in New York City, boarding a final flight to Amsterdam, leaving behind everything she knew. She was contemplating the idea of calling him before she left the country. But then, he hadn't answered the last time she called him, when she left a message saying that she'd taken a fellowship in the Netherlands. He hadn't even called back.

All around her, people were arriving and departing, leaving for new lives and returning to old ones. Couples sat next to each other in the plastic seats, laughing at each other's jokes and holding hands. The hollow feeling in her chest returned, sharp and unmistakable loneliness, reminding her that she was no longer half of a whole. She missed him. All of her ached for him, and she would've given anything to see him smile one last time. Instead she was running away to The Hague, alone.

Bianca pulled the shawl-collar cardigan closer around her shoulders. She'd taken it home with her, the night after it had rained and he told her all about the Illustrated Man. She was still haunted by the sensation of his fingers tracing stars on her arm, shivering on his rug as he hovered over her. Collapsing onto the floor, laughing, his heart beating against her wrist. She figured she would give it back some day, but he never did ask for its return. He had three others, and she guessed he must not have missed it. Or maybe he simply didn't mind. And then he'd left, and against her better judgment, she'd put it in the suitcase pile, wanting to have some souvenir of the man who used to make her feel so very special.

Did he even know he did that? The effect he could have, when he looked at someone with those dark eyes and flashed that grin of his, and you knew that he was really _seeing_ you, and you thought that nobody else in the world had ever really looked at you properly before until then.

It shouldn't have been so easy, to get on a plane and disappear into the clouds, watching the ground grow smaller and smaller. Wasn't there supposed to be something tying you to that place, a weight that you had carry on with you? She felt the opposite of light at the moment, but planes were impossibly heavy and they still managed to take off without a second thought. How did that work?

He'd tried to explain it to her once, at the Smithsonian. Something about physics, lift and thrust and acting forces. She'd asked him to hold off on that lesson, and now she wished she could go back and hear it all again, in detail. He never bored her with his ramblings. She loved to hear him talk, loved the passion that light up his eyes when he knew something. She could still remember when they were getting to know each other, and he used to stop midsentence, apologizing, and she wondered how had made him think that his enthusiasm was something to be sorry for.

There was a pinging sound over the loudspeaker, and then a voice: _Flight 618 to New York is now boarding. Passengers in first or business class, please have your tickets ready._ She stood up, hoisting her backpack over her shoulder. The program had paid for business-class tickets, which Bianca knew she would appreciate on the eight-hour flight to Europe.

This was it. She turned to look back at the main terminal, where passengers were still running and walking in various directions, as though she might see him running towards her, like a scene out of some old movie. He would hold up his badge to get through security, claiming it was a matter of federal importance, and pull her into his arms, explaining that everything was a huge misunderstanding; but she saw only frazzled mothers with crying children and businessmen with large suitcases walking across the moving sidewalks.

With one last glance, she headed to the counter, handing her ticket to the flight attendant before boarding the plane. Every step down the aisle felt like a thousand goodbyes: to her apartment, her job, her friends, her city. Seat 9A was roomy, right next to the window. Outside, she could see the runway and the fence, the city of Baltimore beyond it. An hour away, Washington DC was approaching the end of the workday, and somewhere he was on his way home from Quantico.

Bianca whispered his name to the plastic oval window, one last farewell before the stewardess began the safety presentation.

 _Spencer._

* * *

Emily was alive. At first the shock prevented him from feeling the sting of betrayal. Once they'd stopped Doyle and rescued Declan, once the Senate had cleared the unit to stay together as a team, it started to sink in. JJ had looked him in the eye while he cried in the hospital waiting room. She'd let him in to her house every week he showed up in tears. Hotch had listened to him talk about Prentiss on that couch, and neither one of them had told him the truth.

He was angry. He was bitter. Normally, he would've talked to JJ if something was bugging him. But she was the last person he wanted to talk to. And Hotch, he didn't feel quite as angry at Hotch, but he still couldn't talk to him about what he felt, because Hotch hadn't dealt with the pain of losing Prentiss. He knew she was alive. Talking to Prentiss herself was out of the question as well. He was still trying to come to terms with her death, and the notion that none of this would've happened if she hadn't run away. Garcia was just happy to have Prentiss back alive, Rossi had suspected it all along, and Morgan's anger had dissipated after Doyle was captured.

He used to talk to Bianca when things happened at work. She always listened, giving him her full attention. What would she have done if he'd gone to her now? She would've made him coffee, and sat beside him on the sofa in her apartment. She would've let him cry, let him rage. She'd put her arms around him, and she'd ask why he felt that way, what bothered him most. She would've asked him to consider what it must've felt like to be JJ or Emily or Hotch in that situation, and it would've made sense when she said those things.

She would've told him to go to Rossi's and be with his family.

But he couldn't talk to her anymore. He'd pushed her away, isolating himself during one of the most difficult times in his life, when he needed someone the most because he was afraid of hurting her and afraid of losing her. She didn't even live in the US anymore. And even if he could call her, he doubted she would answer him. _He_ wouldn't want to talk to himself after that. Not after the words he'd flung at her to hurt her most, wound her enough that she would let him walk away with no explanation, enough that she wouldn't follow him.

So where did that leave him?

Lonely. Terribly lonely.

But he didn't have to stay that way. Reid glanced at his watch. If he hurried, he could still get to Rossi's in time - maybe even in time to apologize to JJ and set things right again.

* * *

"Hey. Something still bothering you, kid?"

Reid spun around in his chair to face Morgan. "What- what are you talking about?"

Morgan gave him a long, steady look. "Prentiss is back. You and JJ are back on speaking terms again. Our team is back together, and we just closed a case without Dolan hurting Jenna or Ally. So why are you still looking so bummed out?"

"I'm not, I'm not looking bummed out!" he squeaked. "I've been acting completely normal, I don't know why you would even suggest something like that! I'm great!" He could hear his voice rising an octave, giving him away.

"Reid, come on now, we both know when something's bothering you. So are you gonna tell me, or am I gonna have to get Garcia to do some snooping?"

It was highly unlikely that Garcia would find anything, technophobic as he was. Still, the thought of Quantico's best analyst scouring the internet for dirt made him more than a little uncomfortable.

"Is this about that girl of yours? I haven't heard you talk about Bianca in a while. Something going on with you two?"

 _Something_ being the fact that he'd chased her away in order to prevent her from having to watch him go crazy. Or maybe it was so that he wouldn't have to sit around waiting for her to leave him first. Either way she was gone, living a new life across the Atlantic, and he would probably never hear from her again. Yes, that was something.

Morgan watched as his face fell. "Oh," he said. "Reid, I'm sorry. I didn't know. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," he muttered. "Do I have a choice?"

"If you don't want to, we don't have to. But if you do, I'm here to listen."

"Morgan, no offense, but you've probably dated hundreds of women. You could walk into a grocery store and still walk out with half a dozen phone numbers. I didn't even kiss someone until 2006. I don't think you'd exactly get it." He moved to make an escape to the coffee machine, but Morgan caught his arm.

"Just because I've been on a lot of dates doesn't mean I haven't had my heart broken more than a few times. When did this happen?"

"After Portland."

"Really?" Morgan's eyebrows shot up. "She broke up with you right after the funeral? Wasn't that when you were worried you had schizophrenia because of your migraines?" He nodded. "Damn. That's cold. I'm sorry, man. I know you liked her. Hell, I even thought she was nice."

Reid shuffled his feet, feeling guilty. It wasn't right, to let Morgan think so poorly of her, when she hadn't done anything wrong. But then again, it was easier than explaining the truth. _I broke her heart so she could move to Europe and date someone who wasn't a schizophrenic addict._ And what were the odds they'd ever run into each other again? Incredibly low, given the things he'd said to her.

"Well hey. Who needs her, right? There's someone out there for you. When the time is right, you'll find her." Morgan slapped a hand on his shoulder, and made his way back to his office.

How many chances did one person get, to love and to be loved? How many people could take up that sort of space in your heart? Those were questions that no amount of science or logic could answer for him.

* * *

 _"Et n'oubliez pas les essais sur le legislation de droits de l'homme, pour mardi. Aussi, semaine prochaine, nous aurons une orateur par le Cour internationale de justice. Au revoir jusqe là."_ The professor held up his hands with a flourish, and the room filled with the sound of chairs being pushed out.

Bianca collected her things, stashing a binder and notebook into her white backpack, followed by her pencil case. She stepped out into the open air of the Palace courtyard, a buoyant confidence rising in her chest. One year in, and the courses were getting easier, the language becoming more familiar, and she no longer left with her head spinning from the amount of concentration needed to listen to rapid-paced French. In the wind, the hem of her skirt brushed her knees as choruses of _"à bientôt," "à demain," and "voulez-vous une boisson?"_ drifted around her. Phones were pulled out, and clipped French accents morphed into native tongues, Arabic and German and Japanese.

The first month was the most difficult. Studying abroad in college was vastly different from living abroad. Her ears had to adjust to the constant sounds of foreign words – and then she would remember that those sounds belonged here, and it was _she_ who was the foreigner. Bianca had moved to The Hague a week before the program was to begin, giving herself seven days to settle in to both the country and her small studio flat. She had packed her bags as lightly as possible, shipping a few choice necessities like blankets ahead of time. Moving to a new place demanded certain rituals, acts she had performed a startling number of times in the last two years alone. There was a bed to cover, books to place on the shelves, a poster of Eleanor Roosevelt to hang in the corner, photo frames placed on her desk, and a tiny potted cactus on her windowsill. These were things that helped to turn an unfamiliar place into somewhere that felt like it belonged to her.

She bought a cheap bike, the primary mode of transportation in the Netherlands, and learned how to take the buses and trains to various places. By the time she arrived at the Peace Palace for the first day of classes, there was at least a small seed of confidence within her. Like learning the Dutch language, she had to work to quickly learn the names of her forty-nine other fellows. Her tongue and teeth worked overtime to pronounce phonemes that didn't exist in the English language.

The title of strangest pronunciation was Eva Green, by far. She was a round woman with hundreds of tiny freckles dotting her skin, putting the few on Bianca's cheeks to shame, and wild curly hair the color of fire. She and Bianca had come fast friends upon introducing themselves, when Eva Green and Bianca Brown realized they both shared colorful last names. It wasn't until later that Bianca learned "Green" wasn't Eva's real last name – and Eva wasn't her first name either.

"Aoibhegréine Dyfodwg," the red-haired woman explained. "Eev-GRAIN-yeh Dee-fod-wigh. Aoibhegréine means "radiance of the sun" in Gaelic. But in cases like this, it's easier to save everyone the trouble of pronunciation and just go by Eva Green."

In the present sunlight, she heard that same voice calling to her. "Oi, _bichette!_ Are we still going to Leiden?" Eva stood, one hand on her hip, the other clutching her purse.

" _Ouai_ s, _chérie!_ " she said with a smile, jogging to meet her.

Eva was from Wales, having grown up in a village with 58 letters to its name. "I wish I was joking about that," she had said once. "But my parents seems to have a thing for names that are quite the mouthful." She was the third of nine children in a family that was warm and boisterous and always welcoming. It was there that Eva had picked up the habit of using pet names in order to avoid tripping over a long list of names. It made sense, when one came from a large family with names like "Dubhglas" and "Fionnghuala" and "Laoire."Bianca had affectionately been dubbed _bichette_ , the French word for 'little doe.' It was either that or Bibi, Eva told her, and the latter reminded her too much of a dinner she once shared with people who were now out of her life.

Aoibhegréine was outgoing and funny, and both appreciated the opportunity to give their minds a break from the constant strain of speaking, thinking, reading, and listening in another language. They had gotten into the habit of taking short trips together across the country by train, visiting various cities and places of interest. Leiden was one of Bianca's favorites, and it was only a half hour away by train.

The pair stood side by side, gripping the handles hanging from the ceiling and talking about essay topics and lunch plans until the train came to a halting stop outside the Leiden Centraal station, a glass building caged in by white squares of metal all around it.

"You _really_ want to poke a stick at tha' dragon?" Eva asked. She raised an eyebrow as they stepped onto the platform, confounded by the essay her friend planned to write.

"I think the conflict between Israel and Palestine is an important issue. Especially considering the gross violations of human rights on the Gaza strip," Bianca countered defensively. In a program with fifty fellows, from forty-two different nations, one always ran the risk of offending somebody with their opinions.

"I'll stick wit the North Korean camps, thank you very much. Lotsa problems, a far less controversy. I'm a bit surprised that meek little Bianca is going to do tha'."

"Hey!" Bianca protested. "I'm not meek."

Eva laughed. "Maybe not, but you're the kind o' person who likes to avoid conflict."

She couldn't deny that. Up until middle school, she had been painfully shy, always afraid of upsetting people or saying the wrong thing. In her house, nearly everything was the wrong thing. Though she eventually came out of her shell, that habit of trying to please people had followed her around through the years. "When it's something I'm passionate about, it's different. If it means fighting for what's right, for something I believe in, then I have to be brave. " _You must do the thing you think you cannot do."_ "

"Alright then, Eleanor Roosevelt. The only thing we _must_ do is find somewhere to eat. I'm hungry."

They strolled through the cobblestone streets and over canal bridges to a small café on the waterfront, each of them ordering a _pannenkoek,_ a thin Dutch pancake; Eva's topped with ham and cheese, Bianca's with bananas and honey. They sat together at a table near the canal, the smell of the water crisp in the air. It was nearly spring, the trees around them beginning to bloom, the sunlight shaking away the last traces of winter.

"So," Eva said, between bites of pancake. "Lorenzo's thinking o' coming here for a week, around Easter. D'you think tha's a good idea?"

Bianca loved to hear Eva's lilting accent, making a familiar language sound so new. "I think it's great. I'm sure he misses you- and I know you miss him. You two could go to Amsterdam, take a canal ride… All the trees are starting to bloom. It's very romantic." Lorenzo was Eva's fiancé, a man from Italy whom she'd met "at uni."

"Well, you'll have to meet him o' course, now tha' I've told you all about him." As a result, she felt she knew Lorenzo as well as she would her own friends. Lorenzo was a museum curator who played guitar, built ships-in-a-bottle, and spoke three languages; and he and his fiancée were as thick as thieves. Eva looked up from her plate suddenly. "Hey, what about you?"

Bianca shook her head, pushing a piece of banana around on her plate. "Am I dating anyone? No," she laughed. "The only relationship I have time for is the one I have with my assignments."

"What about back in the States? Were you wit someone?"

Bianca considered ending the conversation with a simple denial, but figured it couldn't hurt to be honest. She couldn't remember the last time she had talked about him. He'd been only a memory, locked inside her heart and existing only in her mind. "There was this one guy," she said. "His name's Spencer. We met through work actually."

"What was he like?" How in the world to describe Dr. Spencer Reid…

He was incredible. He could turn anything into a puzzle and piece it together. He had such a kind heart, and when he smiled the world must've spun a little faster because it made her feel dizzy. "He was… really smart. Brilliant, actually. And he was always looking out for me. I thought it was going to last forever, you know?" She could feel her throat tightening at the simple act of remembering him, her fingers clenching as if the memory itself would slip from her grasp. "But he was gone a lot for his job. And things just… didn't work out. He broke things off before I accepted my spot in the program."

"What an arse."

Even now, she felt the need to defend him, to stick up for him. "But he's not though. I mean, he said some awful things, and what he did hurt… but Eva, he's a good person. He really is."

Eva eyed her curiously, and Bianca felt like she was under scrutiny. "Is he the guy on your phone screen?" she asked finally. Eva was referring to the wallpaper on Bianca's phone, a photo of Spencer she'd taken the day after he cut his hair.

She smiled ruefully. "Yeah. I know I should change it… but I just couldn't bring myself to do it." There were too many words still unspoken, things they'd never gotten to do or to say. The things he'd told her that evening in the hallway outside her apartment had torn at her heart, but she couldn't bring herself to hate him. She had loved him too deeply for that.

Bianca glanced at the buildings around them-old row houses, brick shops, and a windmill in the distance. Spencer would've been able to tell her things like when the town was founded, or how many canals were in the Netherlands, or what local crime statistics were like. He hated the ocean, but the water flowing under the bridges didn't seem all that unlike the Potomac. It was easy to imagine exploring the town's old churches and the fort on the hill with him, while he told her all about Europe's geography. And the poems. She liked to think he would've enjoyed them- she certainly did. Some years ago, the town had painted poems onto the sides of many of their buildings. They came in many languages; French, Dutch, Russian, English, and Chinese, to name a few, and nearly as many colors. On days off, she usually came to Leiden, and walked the streets snapping photos of as many as she could find.

One of her favorites was above Dandelion Market- A.R. Ammons, "Salute." _  
May happiness pursue you,  
catch you  
often, and,  
should it  
lose you,  
be waiting  
ahead making  
a clearing  
for you._

"I'm sorry, _ma bichette._ D'you ever hear from him?" Bianca heard his voice in her head nearly every night, dreams of days that were long gone echoing in her ears until she woke up with the unmistakable pain of longing. Some evenings she tossed and turned beneath the blankets, wide awake and wondering if ever he missed her, or even still thought about her, or if he assumed she was mad at him.

"No. He doesn't have social media or anything. It's weird, how people can just disappear from your lives like that." How they could just vanish like stars at dawn, taking with them the best of your days. She hadn't even gotten the chance to celebrate his birthday with him, not once.

"You're still not over him?"

"I think I will be. Someday." There was only one thing that seemed to help: writing. Bianca had been doing more of that lately. She had started carrying a small notepad with her everywhere, scribbling down verses and ideas as they came to her. It wouldn't be long before she had enough poems to put another book together. Most were about Spencer, or their relationship, or his team, or how it felt to have lost all three at once.

It was all she could do, to hope that love- like the happiness in Ammons' poem – was waiting somewhere ahead, to be found again.

* * *

The commute to work was typically something he enjoyed. It gave him time to collect his thoughts every morning, and left him feeling peaceful amidst the chaos of rush hour in DC. Today was different. Spencer had been running over a thousand things in his mind, trying to make sense of the last thirty years of his life.

On one hand, he'd taken a job that required constant human interaction- something he didn't excel at. He was horrible at talking to people. That conference had been all the proof he needed. Even as an expert, his jokes fell flat and the audience was unreceptive to his speech. Emily had ended up with a whole line of people flocking to her afterwards. He had just stood around awkwardly, wishing that someone would talk to him. He just wasn't good at those sorts of things.

 _She was good at those sorts of things_. The thought came unbidden, and unwelcome. He couldn't deny it was true though. She had always been good with people, compassionate and outgoing. He was awkward and unrelatable. Why did _she_ keep intruding in his mind? It had happened in California too. "I can't explain it sometimes, I just know," he had told them. _She would've called that faith_ , came the voice in the back of his head. But what was he supposed to have faith in? Himself?

That was easier said than done. He hadn't cured schizophrenia, or even the common cold for that matter. He hadn't started a company or invented anything of significance, or put an end to poverty. Instead he hunted serial killers. Why did he do that? Why hadn't he accepted one of the hundreds of offers he'd received after Gideon left?

The answer was surprisingly simple. _Because I belong here._ This was where his family was. Here, he saved lives and caught monsters, and made the world just a little bit better. True to her word, Bianca had printed out that story about the starfish for him, where it still hung on the back of his apartment door, the same place he had taped it up months ago. If he didn't work at the BAU, he would've never met her. But then, she wasn't even around anymore. He didn't even give her the chance to celebrate his birthday. _Maybe that's not your call,_ echoed Emily's voice, when he told her that pursuing Bianca wasn't worth it, that she deserved someone whole and undamaged. It was a little late for that, wasn't it? She was gone, and he was still here, confused.

Stepping into the elevator, he had to admit - there was just something so right about this place. It felt like coming home each day, walking inside the sprawling building that was Quantico. It was time to stop being so weird, letting impossibilities and expectations distract him from what was right in front of him. He ran into Emily on the way in, and explained that to her, as she led him down the hall.

"Otherwise," he heard he saying, "this would've been _really_ awkward." What would've been? Reid hardly had the chance to process it, before she pushed the door of the bullpen open and five voices became one.

"SURPRISE!" His whole family stood before him, smiling back at him. JJ wrapped him in a hug, and Rossi grabbed his face, kissing him on both cheeks. There were presents on the conference table, expertly wrapped, and he could see Garcia lighting the candles of a cake- chocolate, his favorite.

"Happy birthday, Reid." She held the cake before him, the candles flickering. It was traditional to make a wish before blowing out the candles. What was he supposed to wish for? He had the perfect job. He had six people who loved him dearly, who called him a part of their family. He had an incredible mother, and a mind that could do impossible things. Sure, sometimes, late at night he felt lonely. Everyone felt lonely sometimes.

It hadn't been the best of weeks. He'd been frustrated and confused, it left him feeling out of place and disappointed, and suddenly none of that mattered anymore. Being in that room, surrounded by his team, everything felt better.

 _I wish to be with these people for a very, very long time._

He blew out the candles, a grin spreading across his face from the kind of happiness that just can't be held in a second longer. It demands to be shown, to be shared.

* * *

 _"Many people need desperately to receive this message: I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone." – Kurt Vonnegut, Timequake_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So we have now a story in two separate places, Bianca and Spencer an ocean away (do you have to be an ocean awa~y?** [points to you if you get that reference] **)**. **I would love to hear your feedback on this chapter, and thanks to all of you who are reading this story!  
**

 **Thank you to CloverLR, SecretsAreAlwaysShared, manuela-schaeufele, XannaAngel, and nhaquyen for following/favoriting this story.  
And I'm so grateful to ahowell1993, sarahmichellegellarfan1, spurofthemoment24** (thank you so much! my apologies for the emotional overload before work!) **and liviaxellen** (goodness, thank you! I feel honored!) **for leaving reviews on the last chapter. You all are the best.** **  
**

 **Now, here's the part where you can say you've learned something! Yes, _bichette_ really is a word, and Eva's not calling her a female dog. It means "little deer" and is often used as an affectionate pet name, much as Americans use phrases like "pumpkin" and "honey." (Bianca responds with _chérie_ which roughly means "dear/darling.")**

 **As you'll also note, we've gone from the end of Season 6 to midway through Season 7. I hope you'll stick with me through the next few chapters, and as always, I love hearing from you! I'm also toying with the idea of changing this fic's title... Thoughts?  
**


	14. 14) Promises to Keep

_"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on." –Robert Frost_

* * *

It was easy to imagine how an eidetic memory could become a curse. Despite being so far away from him, Bianca could still remember every last thing about him.

The way he laughed, a low sound that was always accompanied by a grin that stretched across his entire face. How he walked, his long legs easily crossing the sidewalk, his shoulders always in some semblance of slouching. His tie was always crooked in some way. His hair was messy, but it never looked bad on him. He could talk about books and authors for days on end, and used to ask her what she thought of each one she read. His lips weren't quite symmetrical, making every smile just a little bit crooked. He knew the names of all the stars and memorized a list of all the things that made her smile.

She remembered all those things, but more than that, she missed them. Everything about him, she ached to see or to hear one more time. The memories of every date, every kiss, every touch, every conversation haunted her, never staying away for long. There was only one way to keep the loneliness at bay.

She wrote. Bianca wrote poems, long and short, some specific and others the sort of vague metaphorical verses that made sense only to the person who wrote it – or the person it was about. A few months ago, she had accepted a position in Georgetown's law program next year. The tuition would be expensive, and there was an easy way to pay most of it off: another book. Her last anthology was by no means a New York Times bestseller, but it had been released to modest success and a few obscure poetry awards. She could put out another, make enough of a profit to afford school, and study without worrying about the bills.

Choosing the theme had been easy. Her first collection, _A Song for Starlit Beaches_ had been all about compassion, and making a difference, and the significance of every human being. Those were the things on her mind when she had been writing, studying psychology as an undergrad and living away from her family for the first time. Now her mind was filled with memories of a life a world away, a man who had brought her so much happiness, and the team that had become his family.

Since moving to The Hague, she had written about them so much already. It was almost an unconscious need to put their stories onto paper so they would stop floating around in her mind while she tried to focus on translating French or memorizing legal jargon. They were all so fresh in her memory, their names coming so easily. Sometimes she wrote about the monsters they fought, or the way they pushed back the darkness. She turned their courage into stanzas and verses, and she transfigured all she knew about Spencer into rhymes and metaphors. It was easier to copy down poems like these after years of using writing as a way to dull the pain of growing up with her family.

On warmer days, she would take her notebook down the beach or sit by the edge of a seaside canal. Removing her shoes, she would dip her toes in the water and write for hours. It was funny how the ocean was so vast, but it made the distance between Europe and the US seem a little less large. She was sitting near one shore of the Atlantic, and on the opposite side was Washington DC, and therefore so was Spencer.

Bianca made a call to her editor, who was delighted to hear she wanted to publish again, and emailed a sample of latest work. That began a once familiar correspondence, decisions of which poems to put where, and how long it was to be, and what should the cover look like, and what was it called?

She flipped through her journal to the page she had marked weeks ago, glancing over the last verses of what she had written.

 _You knew the names of all the stars and  
all the lives that had left this earth  
in your care, a burden that you thought you had to bear  
alone. _

_And from your lips you asked the constellations  
if ever the light would outweigh the darkness you  
spent a lifetime pushing back.  
The sky was silent as night  
so often is, blackness  
with speckles of brilliant light,  
unable to  
answer._

 _In a city full of skylines, I told you once  
it would be enough to make a difference  
to just that one.  
You packed that in your briefcase, carried it  
to work; the way I moved my stories  
across the sea, and I never did know if you  
realized that it would have been enough for me  
to matter to just that one._

 _My days are marked by the memory of you  
for you changed the heart  
of just that one.  
And it made all the difference  
to that one._

A collection was supposed to include the best of the best, stories and sentences worth reading. There was no question about it: the best poem she had ever written was the one they had once been. Booting her laptop back to life, Bianca fired a quick email to her editor. She had found her title, her cover, and dedication, all in one.

* * *

Spencer Reid's list of romantic endeavors was short: Alexa Lisbon, the ill-fated high school crush, who had laughed when they tied him to the flagpole, completely naked. JJ, who was still one of best friends and had been made him Henry's godfather. Lila Archer, who was still in LA, as far as he knew. And Bianca Brown.

He could add one more name to that list, another relationship that had begun with another phone call. This was different though. He'd met Bianca in person first, working with her in New York. He'd never met _her_ before. He didn't even know what she looked like. He didn't need to. He already knew he loved her. It had started with a comment on his article, and then a consult, when he was just trying to find a doctor who could help him to make sense of the mess in his brain. He'd found her, sent the MRIs to her, and she'd been able to do what nobody else could: make them stop.

He called her to check in from time to time, update her on how he was feeling. Soon he was calling just to hear her voice coming through the earpiece of the phone. He was never allowed to call her on his cellphone though. It was too dangerous, she explained. If _he_ knew, if _he_ found out that Reid was calling her, they would both be at risk. How strange, to care so much for someone you couldn't see face to face. And even stranger still that she felt the same way.

Sundays were their day. He called her every Sunday, and spent the other six days of the week counting down the hours until he could go to the phone booth and dial that number. On repeat he played those digits, every last number and every last word she said to him and he couldn't imagine why anyone would listen to the same songs over and over again when _this_ was so much better.

Her voice was better than any melody Beethoven had written and all he wanted was more time to hear it. He would've talked to her forever if he could. But she was always being careful. Six months, and they still had to be on guard. It pained him to know that she was living so long in fear, and it took all of his restraint not to get Garcia to hunt her down so his team could rescue her. Before he'd left for New Mexico, she'd said _be safe._ In his thirty years, so many people had said those exact words to him, but none had ever sounded so perfect as when they came from her lips. _Be safe._ He would rather she was safe instead.

Whatever charm those words cast, they must've worked because not only had the case gone well, but he had been able to talk to her three times in one week, the last of those seven days ending just like the first- with a phone call to her. It still stung when she said they couldn't talk more often, but he knew that wasn't her fault. It was _his,_ wherever he was, whoever he was. _He_ was the reason Reid couldn't meet her in person. Hearing the sound of crying nearly broke his heart, a sniffle followed by a silence he wished he could fill with something meaningful. He couldn't stand to hear her cry, to hear her so sad and to be so many miles away, unable to hold her. But then, just before she hung up, he caught those last two words. "Love you."

In six months, she hadn't said that before. The stab of sadness vanished, replaced by the feeling of hope rising in his chest, making the longing even worse than before. Before he could say the same, the line went dead. _I love you,_ he thought, hoping the words would reach her, trusting her to know he felt that strongly about her without his having said it. She knew, didn't she? She had to know.

He was still so surprised by it all, he almost headed in the wrong direction after he hung up. Reid turned around, jogging back the way he'd come, her name echoing in his mind with every step.

 _Maeve. Maeve, Maeve, Maeve._

* * *

Bianca sat alone at the table outside Swing's, sipping her tea slowly. It was surprisingly quiet outside in the District that afternoon. Being stateside was a new experience, the sounds of English all around her, unmasked by Dutch or French. Her short week of leave had given her the chance to come back and get things in order with her landlord, as well as to visit a few friends - coworkers from the nonprofit; Ivy, whose hair was now bright blue. She had a train ticket purchased so she could make a visit to New York and catch up with Maggie, Nathaniel, Sarah-Jean, and Dr. Baker.

A few times she had toyed with the idea of walking past his apartment building, just to see if the stars would align and she would see him just one last time. She couldn't seem to find the courage though, and instead had ended up at the coffee shop. Two books sat in front of her – the most recent journal she'd been filling, only a third of the pages used, and the hardback she'd been carrying around in her bag, trying to figure out what to do with it.

"Bianca? Bianca Brown?" An excited voice broke through the quiet of the terrace, and she turned around to see a woman with bright pink glasses running towards her, blonde curls bouncing wildly. A dozen emotions washed over her at once: relief, joy, shock, panic, wondering if it was too late to grab her things and run inside. As it turned out, it was. The woman was already pulling out the chair across from her and sitting down.

"Hi, wow. Long time no see! Like, really long time."

"Hi, Penelope. It's been a while." Nearly two years to be exact. Garcia was staring at her as though she still couldn't believe she was here.

"What are you doing here? And where have you been? I mean, I know you were overseas or something, but I don't exactly know why you were there. Why did you leave? Okay, sorry. Sorry, one question at a time." The analyst took a deep breath. "Hi."

"No, no you're fine! I've been in the Netherlands actually, doing a program with the UN. I'm studying international law. It's for two years, but my time's almost up. I'll be moving back soon." How much had Spencer told them? Did they know why she left, or why they were no longer together? Bianca took another sip of tea just to have something to do other than meet Garcia's eyes.

"Oh, well that's really cool. I mean, it's very humanitarian. I thought maybe you joined the Peace Corps or something, because you must've had a good reason for leaving Reid behind like that-" she stopped herself, her hand flying over her mouth. "God. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that…" It was clear Garcia was feeling conflicted, and she couldn't blame her. It looked like she'd abandoned Reid suddenly just after Emily's death, in order to jet set off to another country without even saying a proper goodbye.

Bianca held up a hand assuredly. "It's fine. What… um, what exactly did he tell you?"

Garcia looked away nervously. "Well. He told Morgan you two broke up right after the funeral, and that you wanted to move away. That's really all I know. Reid didn't seem to want to talk about it, so we just sort of let it go. I've been kind of mad at you for breaking his heart like that." That made sense. "What _did_ happen between you guys?"

She sighed. It was impossible to avoid running into someone who knew about her previous history with Spencer, and the question would inevitably be asked at some point. She tried to formulate a neutral response. "A lot was going on at that time. I don't know if it's fair to say it was anyone's fault. He was having those awful headaches all the time, and it just… made everything harder. Then I got an offer to join the program in Europe, but we never really got the chance to talk about it. He always seemed to be feeling sick or away on a case. And when Emily died, and he just kind of… retreated. A few days later he said he needed time. It was just all too exhausting for him, and he needed to focus on you all. On his family. So I accepted my spot in the fellowship. I mean, I know Emily's death was hard on all of you."

Garcia's eyes widened. "But that's the thing, Emily, she's not dead!"

Her head jerked up, her mouth falling open. "What?" Had she heard that right?

"Emily's alive. I mean, she died for a minute, but they were able to revive her. After everything that happened with Doyle, they figured it was best if she could disappear and sort of… start over. She came back though. Well, for a little while. Then she took a job at Interpol. In London. But she's not dead!"

Bianca didn't know what to say, could only blink in response. Emily was alive? All of the grief Spencer had felt for her and she hadn't died? He had pushed her away after the funeral, and she had given him that space because she thought he needed it… and now she was finding out that all of that was over a death that hadn't really happened. It wasn't Emily's fault though, it couldn't have been easy to start over again so far away from everyone in order to keep them safe. "Is there anything else that I should know?" she asked, warily.

"Well," Penelope began. "Hotch is dating this woman named Beth, and she's super nice and Jack loves her. JJ and Will got married, and it was as adorable as you would expect. There's this new agent on the team, Dr. Alex Blake, and she's like a less awkward female version of Reid, if Reid had studied linguistics instead of math."

Now that was interesting visual. She shifted in her seat, trying to sound casual when she asked, "And um, Reid…" It felt so foreign to call him that. "How is he?" Garcia's smile fell, and Bianca could sense there was something she hadn't told her yet. "Penelope? Is he okay?"

"Well, okay, here's the thing. I was kind of mad at you, but it sounds like maybe that wasn't fair because you didn't just up and leave à la _Gone With the Wind_. But I mean, you've been gone for a while. And um, he… he met someone."

Oh. Oh. Her brain put the words together slowly, like translating French phrases one definition at a time. He, being Spencer. Someone, being a girl. He and another girl. Together. She had to force herself to breath in slowly as her stomach dropped. "So… what's she like?"

"That's kind of the thing. We don't know all that much about her since he's been kind of secretive about it. But she's a girl, and she's real, and he calls her all the time. I can't lie, it's kind of really adorable. I think he really likes her."

Of course he had moved on. It was silly to think he hadn't, that he'd been pining for her the same way she had for nearly the last two years. "That's - that's great." Bianca forced a smile. She would be happy for him. She wouldn't be selfish.

Garcia frowned. "What do you mean? I just told you he's dating someone else. He's in love with her. And you're – you're just _okay_ with that?"

No. It felt like the wind had been knocked out of her and she wanted to run back to the airport and get on a plane and pretend that this conversation hadn't happened at all, just go back to The Hague and return to naively dreaming of him. "You're not?" she found herself asking in a measured response. "If he's seeing someone, and he loves her, then he's happy. If that's true, then… well, I have to be okay with that. When you love someone, you want what's best for them. If there's someone out there who _is_ better for him, who makes him happy, then I'll have to accept that."

"What about your happiness?" Garcia asked quietly.

Her happiness had been almost four thousand miles away until this week. And now her happiness had found love somewhere else. It was time to let him go. "I'm doing what I love. I'm writing. I'm living in a beautiful city. That's enough, for now." That was a lie. She loved her work, and she loved The Hague, but there was a reason she hadn't gone a single day without thinking about his eyes or his voice or his lips or how he used to hold her hand, his fingers soft and warm and strong.

"I'm not a profiler, but somehow I don't think this all adds up. Wait, are you seeing someone else too?" She raised her brightly painted fingernails to her face as though it were a scandal.

"No," Bianca said, staring down at the sidewalk. "I'm not." She gave a dismal smile. "He's kind of a hard act to follow."

Garcia nodded, looking disappointed. Her eyes trailed across the table, and Bianca hastily laid her arm across the hardback book, hoping Garcia hadn't caught the title.

"I'm glad I got to see you," she added, trying to act calm despite the heat rising in her cheeks. _Please tell me she didn't see the book. Anything but that._ "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," Garcia responded.

"I'm going to be moving back to DC next month. I'll be taking classes at Georgetown. Please, don't tell him that I'm coming back – or that you saw me here. I just… I don't want to get in the way or whatever he has now. Please."

The blonde woman pouted. "But B, that's not _fair_. I finally see you again, and I find out that I don't need to hate you, and I can't even say something about it?"

"Please, Penelope. Please don't tell anyone about this."

* * *

Penelope Garcia was true to her word. She kept her promises. But she was also great at snooping and finding out things that people tried to keep hidden. It took only a few minutes at the bookstore and one employee to help her find what she was looking for.

Earlier that day she'd caught a glimpse of the words on the book that Bianca was trying hard to cover up, and though she couldn't be certain what it was, she had her speculations. But Garcia hadn't expected _this._

She paid for the copy, glancing down at it periodically on the way back home until she could sit down on her bed and give it a thorough examination. It had been published only six months ago. She flipped through the pages, each one surprising her more than the last. The epitaph, the dedication, every single poem, every word piecing together all that Bianca hadn't said outside the coffee shop, all of it all too familiar.

 _I shouldn't have done this_ , Garcia thought _. I definitely should not have done this._

If only she could go back in time, and just keep walking past the table, ignoring Bianca. Then she wouldn't be stuck in this position, torn between her loyalty to Reid, and the utter loneliness painfully etched on the face of that tiny person. Bianca was strong, she knew that, but at that moment she looked so very breakable.

She flipped back to the first poem, read through it, and shut the book with a heavy sigh, begging the cover to have changed since she last looked at it, but it stubbornly remained the same.

"Well, that explains how she financed her international travels," she said to nobody in particular.

The book short, though thick, was bound in navy-blue, dotted with tiny golden stars and with a white stripe running over the bottom. There was a faux-taped photo on the cover, reminding Garcia of another book. This time, it wasn't a Polaroid; just a vintage-washed picture. It was the young man in the photo that struck her most, a portion of his face covered by the title. To anyone else, it wouldn't have been recognizable. She figured there were maybe twelve people who would both notice it and be able to place a name to it.

The man wore a vest and tie over a white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up just before his elbows. He was looking down, probably sifting through papers or reading the pages of a book at lightning speed.

 _To That One,_ the title read, a tiny star at the end of the last word. Below, another tiny star within the white stripe clarified, _poems by Bianca Larson._

Oh, this was going to make keeping that promise so much harder.

* * *

 _"Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can't help them, at least don't hurt them." – His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Don't hate me friends! I assure you, all is according to plan. Things will make sense soon enough. For those of you keeping score at home, we're in Season 8 territory. Thanks to all of you who read this story, it means so very much to me! Thank you to X Valkyrie Prime X, aryaneragon4ever, RandomNinja1112, hbomb87,and TIGGI1 for following/favoriting this story.  
Thanks so so much to ahowell1993 and sarahmichellegellarfan1 for writing a review for the last chapter!  
**

 **As you may have noticed, Maeve has now entered the picture. I wanted her to be a part of this story from the very beginning, and I hope that in the following chapters that too will make more sense. Thanks so very much! If you have the chance to leave me a review, it's always much appreciated.**


	15. 15) Something

_"Maybe this was what love meant after all: sacrifice and selflessness. It did not mean hearts and flowers and a happy ending, but the knowledge that another's well-being is more important than one's own." – Melissa de la Cruz_

* * *

She had been home only one month. How many times could one person pack and unpack their life in the same city? Bianca had settled in, new apartment, old building, and was starting to get the hang of classes at Georgetown Law. It was strange to spend her days hearing mostly English, not needing to translate street signs or devote her attention to listening in French. She did however miss her friends, all of the fellows now back in their respective homelands. Eva's absence was the one she felt the most. Two years with the fiery redhead, writing essays and wandering through the Netherlands together had turned the pair into the best of friends. There were nights of laughter and practical jokes, weekends doing research in libraries older than the United States itself, and long discussions about the lives they lived outside of the program.

All good things had to come to an end, though. They still kept in touch, sending emails at least once a week, and sometimes even calling; but Eva had her firm to return to, as well as Lorenzo, and she had responsibilities back in DC, where a new routine was falling into place. She took the metro across town in the mornings to attend lectures and classes, and wrote her papers in the evenings. Her classmates were a wide spectrum of ages and backgrounds, and her professors ranged from temperamental to generous to downright cantankerous. Still, she enjoyed the work, knowing that soon enough it would pay off, and she would graduate with that coveted JD degree.

More strenuous than her course load was the effort she dedicated to avoiding any members of the BAU – Dr. Spencer Reid in particular. Garcia knew she was back in the District, but as far as she could tell Penelope had been true to her word. She was careful not to go to any coffee shop other than Swing's (she counted on him not wanting to return to somewhere that had been "hers") and kept her book browsing strictly to the Georgetown library and the secondhand bookstore not far from her apartment. As much as she loved Carpe Librum, she missed making trips to Second Story Books and browsing their antique copies. That store had been a favorite of his, and running into him there was far too likely.

Off-limits were also the Smithsonians, the art galleries, and most of the National Mall. Anything east of 13th Street was also too close for comfort, as were any of the metro lines running towards Quantico during the week. Naturally though, all bets were off when she had to go east for her classes at the Law Center. While the main campus was closer to the Potomac, the University's Law Center was strategically located near the Supreme Court and the Capitol – not even a full block from his apartment. She got off the metro two blocks away, and walked around the Center to enter from the door furthest from the Capitol Plaza Apartments. It complicated her schedule, but it was well worth it not to run into him accidentally.

There were several classes each day, and those studying different clusters of law took different courses and seminars. Her plan was to continue on the international law track, specializing in human rights. While her fellow classmates wanted to focus in areas ranging from tax law to family law, many of the first-year course requirements were general classes. Tuesday was one of the rare days when she had the chance to take one of her cluster-focused courses. Halfway down the hall to _Refugee Law and Policy_ , her eye caught a glimpse of a paper taped to the wall, and she backtracked to double check. Sure enough, she had seen correctly. It was one of the upper division classes, one of the criminal justice seminars. Some of the professors were in the habit of advertising guest speakers, should any other students want to sit in. The blue sheet of paper announced:

 _Tuesday's guest lecturers, from the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit:  
SSAs David Rossi and Dr. Spencer Reid._

There was no indication as to which class – or classes – they would be there for. Was the pair here now? She could recall Spencer mentioning offhandedly that he sometimes went with alone or with Rossi to lecture at universities, Georgetown being one of them. She had assumed that mostly meant the undergrad campus, never had it occurred to her that he might be _here_. Without a second thought, Bianca turned on her heel and ran back down the stairs and the door of the Center. She didn't stop running until she had traversed the streets all the way back to her apartment, where she quickly shut the door and fired a text to a classmate to say she wasn't feeling well and ask for today's notes.

It was there she remained all afternoon, missing her class on refugee law as well as _Civil Procedures._ She wasn't ready to face him again, not yet. And besides, Penelope told her that he was happy. There was no way she was about to ruin that happiness with an unwelcome reappearance.

* * *

It was dark.

Everything was dark. He pulled the blinds down over the windows, but it wasn't to prevent a migraine. No, this kind of pain would exist regardless of the light. He just wanted his surroundings to reflect that.

Dark.

Tangled.

Hollow.

He stood in the corner, surveying the room.

No. This wasn't good enough. Everything inside him was a raging storm, and everything here was too tidy, too full of books she would never read and things she would never see, and the ghost of all those things not done was going to haunt him forever.

The bookshelf was where he began. Taking books and pulling them out one by one, throwing them across the floor, not caring whether he wrinkled a page or bent the covers. They hit the ground with a heavy thunk, and he kept going, tossing them away. He wanted to strip away the years of accumulated knowledge from his room, until everything was bare.

None of that mattered any more. What was the point of knowing all those things if he couldn't save her?

He should've known. If he had been thinking straight, if his mind had been clear, he would've realized what was going on before they left that apartment, he would've stopped Diane before she could get to Maeve.

But no, he let emotion get in the way, and he had messed up, and because of him, because of _him_ she was gone. It was all his fault.

Why love at all, if everything was going to be taken from him? Didn't he deserve one good thing in his life? Already he'd lost his sanity, his mind, his mother. He had been tortured and addicted and beaten. And just when he found something wonderful, she was gone.

Every time he closed his eyes, she was right there, Maeve held tight by Diane, the gun pressed close to her. _He_ never got to hold her. It wasn't fair. Every time he tried to sleep he saw her, and his mind went over every single possible outcome, how he could have changed the outcome, and it tore him apart even further.

He shoved the chess pieces from the board. _Everything_ was a goddamn zugzwang now, leaving him unable to move. Foolishly he had played to the bitter end, and he never did like bitter things. It was crushing him now, that bitterness.

Life was enough of a chessboard, and he was tired of being checkmated.

He should have put his gun around his ankle, like Hotch did, and pulled it out when Diane turned away from him. Or when she had her mouth on his, he could have shot her right there, and ran across the room to rescue the only person in the world he wanted to see. He should have let the others come in sooner. He should have grabbed Diane and ripped the gun from her hands, it would have been so easy to overpower her so why hadn't he? Why hadn't Hotch or Morgan or JJ or Blake or _anyone_ taken the shot? Why hadn't they killed Diane before she killed Maeve? Because this wasn't a case of collateral damage, this was about the _only_ thing that mattered to him, and Diane was _nobody._

That _bitch._

It would have been so easy to save her, it _should have been_ so easy to save her, so why was Maeve gone and why was he still here and why wouldn't all of the pain tearing him apart just end, break his heart and get it over with?

He hadn't slept in two days, he hadn't shaved, hadn't changed out of his pajamas and robe, hadn't left the apartment. He wasn't eating or talking or reading. The strength to do those things was gone, every ounce of energy and courage spent on _her._ And if she was gone, what was the point?

Exhausted, he collapsed onto the couch. His body was too tired. He would have to sleep and pray the nightmares didn't come.

 _The Narrative of John Smith_ sat on the table, the copy she had given him, with her tiny handwriting inside the cover. His hands found the book, and he clutched it close to his chest, a safeguard and a charm, and if he tried hard enough he could pretend that holding that book would bring her back, that he would wake up with Maeve in his arms instead.

Sleep came quickly, unexpectedly.

When he blinked awake in the dark room, he felt the hard spine of the novel in his hands. He thought for a second that it was just December 11th, and he had gone to dinner at that restaurant and fallen asleep with her gift in his arms, and he should probably get to a phone booth and call her. He practically leapt off the couch, but then his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and he saw the books scattered around him and the chessboard, emptied, and the utter darkness.

And it all came rushing back to him, worse than before, _so_ much worse than before.

* * *

"It just kills me to see him like this," Garcia said, falling into a chair around the table.

"I know, I know. But Reid just lost someone very important to him. We need to give him time," Morgan insisted. The team was gathered in the bullpen, having just returned from a consult in Alexandria. Hotch had wanted to check in with them, but the conversation quickly was steered to Reid. They were all worried about him. He wasn't answering calls, wasn't leaving his apartment, wasn't talking to anyone.

Hotch knew better than anyone what it was like to lose someone that way, to come so close to saving the day and still fall short. At the same time, a similar experience didn't make it any easier to reach out to Reid. There were no words for things like that, no way of knowing for sure what he needed to hear or how long it would take.

"You don't think that he's…" JJ trailed off, glancing between team members, afraid to speak the words out loud for fear it might make them true. With the exception of Blake, they knew what she meant.

"I don't know," Hotch admitted. "We won't know for sure until he's ready to talk to us. But right now, I think it's best to treat Reid like a missing victim. By that, I mean I think that until we have reason to believe otherwise, we should assume he's not."

JJ had reason for concern. The last time Reid had been so distant and absent was in the throes of his addiction, when he was always disappearing to get a quick hit. It would be easy to go over to his apartment, have Morgan kick the door in, and see him. If they did that, he might never trust them again. After that night at the loft, something inside him had broken. None of them had seen him so distraught before. He was inconsolable. Morgan drove him home in silence, and watched him shuffle inside without a word of goodbye. Eight days had since passed, and there was still no word from him.

"I just wish there was something we could do," Morgan sighed. Garcia's mouth fell open with a gasp, and all eyes in the room turned to her. The analyst clamped a hand over her mouth, realizing her mistake.

"Penelope, Morgan said slowly. "What are you thinking?"

Garcia looked up at them meekly, like a child caught red-handed by a parent. "It's just," she said nervously. "Just that there might be something we _can_ do."

* * *

She made a mental list of what she knew.

 **1** : The team had returned from California two days ago.  
 **2** : Yesterday, they had all gone over to help Reid clean his apartment, which was untidier than usual. She assumed that meant it was a complete mess, a physical disaster zone to match what he felt.  
 **3** : For ten months he'd been seeing – well, not _seeing_ technically – a girl. Her name was Maeve Donovan. She was a geneticist, and she was funny, and she was smart, and she also had a stalker. A very dangerous stalker.  
 **4** : Said stalker had abducted her, then lured him to the loft where she had committed suicide, killing herself and Maeve.  
 **5** : He loved Maeve. He loved her very, very much.

Hotch had asked her to come to the office. If she went to his apartment, he might not let her in. There was no telling what he would do. Since the case in California, he was slowly getting better, more sociable and less depressed, but it was evident the wound still cut deep. Which is why they had called her.

Garcia had given her number to Hotch, who in turn explained the details to her. They were doing all they could to support him, the agent explained. But he still went home alone, and there was only so far they could delve into his personal life while balancing their own. It might help, he suggested, for Reid to see someone who wasn't involved in the case. There was distance, a fresh perspective, someone to listen who hadn't seen it firsthand.

She didn't know if she was ready to see him. Over the phone Hotch had offered her a choice, and she didn't have to take it, didn't have to agree. It would have been easy to just turn them down and continue on with her life, avoiding all their familiar haunts. Now was not the time for selfishness, though. He needed someone, and if his family thought that somehow, she could be that person, what choice did she have?

And so she had come, unbuttoning her old gray winter coat as she walked into the building. She had brought white tulips, wrapped in tissue paper; the brooch on her coat a near carbon copy. They were the first thing that came to mind, after so much time in the Netherlands. White tulips were elegant, and in the language of flowers they meant "forgiveness." It was her way of saying, "Whatever happened between us, I forgive you for. And whatever happened to you and her, I'm sorry, and I hope you can forgive yourself."

Bianca stepped out of the elevator, holding her breath as they came around the corner of the lobby. All seven of them, moving together towards her. Immediately she saw him, her heart lurching as he came to a sudden halt, the rest of the unit stopping just behind him. Time stretched before them as he looked at her, his face blank. Altogether he appeared disheveled; his hair was getting long again, it looked like he hadn't shaved in a few days, and the circles around his eyes were a darker shade of purple than she remembered. But it was him. Still him, always _him_.

"Hi Spencer," she said, her voice soft. And then his face contorted, his eyebrows furrowed as he grimaced at the sight of her. Her heart, which had fluttered so high in her throat just moments ago, fell straight through to her stomach, dropping like a stone.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. No _hello_ , no _how did you get here_? Only _why_? Why are _you_ here, when she is not?

She stammered, searching for a proper answer, when Hotch spoke up. "I called her."

Spencer turned around to the man in the suit, dismayed by the betrayal. "You called her?"

"Reid, we've been worried about you. I know how important it is to have support at a time like this, and I thought it might help to have someone around who wasn't a part of the case." He said the word _case_ carefully, stepping around the mess it implied. "Someone who knows you well."

Spencer returned his attention to her, looking her over quickly. "No offense _Bianca,"_ he practically spat her name, and the sound of it made her recoil. He was telling her plainly, _your name isn't hers_. "But you don't really know me anymore."

The look of shock on the faces of those around him told her that he hadn't responded this way before. He was angry. Furious. Hotch told her over the phone that he was sad. Depressed, despondent. This was different, and she was the reason for the shift. It didn't take much to piece together that inference – he had loved Maeve. And she was gone. If Maeve had lived, Bianca wouldn't be standing there. Her presence was yet another reminder of what had happened.

She could feel her resolve wavering, the impulse to leave the building in tears rising. She fought back, forcing herself to stand up straight and meet his eyes with a calm face. True, she hadn't been in his life for the past two years, and maybe she didn't know what he was feeling right now, but she knew _him_. Bianca drew in air, the breath shaky as her lungs filled with something she hoped was courage. "You are Doctor Spencer Reid. Your parents are William and Diana Reid. You grew up in Las Vegas, and you went to school at Caltech, and you graduated when you were sixteen."

His brown eyes were still as cold as steel, and so she continued. "You write your mother letters every day. You always put too much sugar in your coffee because you hate bitter things. Your favorite color is purple, which is why you wear it so much, especially when you're having a bad day. You decided that when you were eleven, and your mom planted lilacs in the backyard. You love to read, but your favorite book is _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ because you love the way that history and magical realism blend together perfectly. Your favorite poet is Poe, and your favorite poem is _Annabel Lee._ "

With every word he was shaking his head, as though the motion could silence the litany of things falling from her lips, confirming that she knew, she _knew._ "You couldn't study abroad in college but if you could, you would've gone to Russia because you loved _Solaris_ so much. You don't know who Taylor Swift is, but you know every word to Billy Joel's _We Didn't Start the Fire_ and you can explain them all too. You've seen every episode of _Doctor Who_ , but you like the Fourth Doctor best. You learned to play the piano in a day, and you once told me that Gideon was far more of a father to you than your dad ever was."

"Stop it," he said quietly, but she persevered.

"You don't know how to dance, but you still danced with me. You have one of the kindest hearts in the world, and you always listen to people because that's who you are. You never roll your sleeves up past your elbows, even when you're alone, out of habit. When you met my family, I told you that you were all the family I needed, and you were more than willing to be there for me. You love so deeply and so much and the people you love most are the ones standing around you now, because they are your family and they care about you enough to do whatever it takes to get you back!"

"Stop it!" His voice rose louder.

"You're the kind of person who buys snickerdoodles at a food truck just to make someone feel better, and you hate the Crime Museum, and you're not sure if God exists or not because you died for a minute in that shack and you saw something you couldn't explain, but the night you told me about it we both agreed that the stars were something wonderful. You hate spinach, and you like sweets, and you were scared because you thought your migraines might mean that you were sick and-"

"I SAID, STOP!" He was glaring at her now, face red, angry, fists clenched tightly by his sides. In all their time together, Bianca had never heard him yell, and the sound drained the color from her face, but she kept herself steady, standing her ground.

"Spencer," she said softly, taking half a step towards him. "I'm not a genius. I don't have an eidetic memory. But I remember everything about you. And do you know why? I remember because I care about you." He stared down at the floor, and pressed his lips into a thin line, seemingly unmoved. "Look, I'm not asking anything of you. I'm not here for my own reasons. I came because Hotch asked me to. If you want me to go, I'll go. But if you need someone to talk to, I'm here."

The silence fell thick and heavy as everyone looked at Spencer, waiting for a response. "You got something wrong," he said finally, his voice hoarse. "My favorite book. It's not _One Hundred Years of Solitude._ "

Bianca could distinctly remember the conversation over the phone when he had told her all about it, the genius of Gabriel García Márquez's novel. "What is it then?" she asked.

He looked up, meeting her eyes. " _The Narrative of John Smith_ ," he answered.

"I would love to hear about it sometime," she replied. It was an invitation, subtle and small.

"We'll see." It wasn't a yes, or a no, but a maybe, a possibility hanging in the air and waiting to be realized. For now, that would have to be enough.

* * *

Bianca left, and with paperwork finished, he could finally go home himself. All Reid wanted was to go back to his apartment and fall asleep on the couch so he could wake up to that brief and fleeting moment when he forgot that there was no longer a voice waiting to answer his payphone call; a second of bliss before he inevitably remembered why Sundays were no longer important.

He still wasn't sure how to feel about seeing her there. Why had she come there, wearing that black dress with the Peter Pan collar? It was so similar to the clothes Maeve had owned - a fact he knew only from having gone back to the apartment where she had been hiding, before her parents packed everything up for good – and the similarity stung. Why had Hotch called _her_ , of all people? And wasn't she supposed to be in Europe still? He didn't want to see her. He wanted to see Maeve. Maeve, who he had spent so many hours communicating with but seen for only a few short minutes. Maeve, who had never heard him say "I love you" without the word "don't" in the middle. Never had he realized it was possible to miss a person so much.

As he pulled the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder, there was a clacking of heels, and Garcia appeared before him. "Hey, Reid, I know you're going home, but there's something you really need to see."

"Something I need to see?" he asked, apprehensive.

Garcia fished around in the abyss that was her purse. "Please don't take this the wrong way, or assume I'm trying to tell you something, because I'm not, not really at least. I just really hate to see you hurting and I've had this in my bag forever, and I thought it might be better if you had it, for the time being." She withdrew a hardback navy book. "You don't have to read it right now," she added. "Just, take it with you okay?"

She passed the book into his hands, and he flipped it over to examine the cover, only to find his own reflection. That was _him_ on the cover of the book, a photo that Bianca had taken years ago. And if that was her photo then there could only be one person who had written it. _To That One. Poems by Bianca Larson._

Reid looked back to Garcia, utterly bewildered. "What is this?" He knew, he knew exactly what it was, but he asked nonetheless. Not a what, but more of a why – _why are you giving this thing to me?_

"It's a book, of course. Her book. Bianca's. I'm not trying to tell you to move on or to do anything or to feel anything. I just think you should take a look at it, because if you do, you'll realize that there's someone who has cared for you all this time. You don't have to love her. But I think if you need someone, she'll be there." She tapped the cover, her fingers resting near the title. "I also think it's pretty clear who _that one_ is."

He opened the book to the first page, where the dedication was printed.

 _"But little girl, you realize that there are starfish stranded down this beach for miles and miles. It doesn't matter if you toss them in or not, you can't save them all. You can't possibly make a difference." The girl just smiled, and bent down to pick up another starfish, throwing him back into the waves. She turned to face the old man, and said, "It made a difference to that one." – An adaptation of Loren Eiseley's 'The Star Thrower'_

 _For the one who made a difference to me, and to his family, who make a difference to so many every day._

"Aren't you going to take those with you?" Garcia was eyeing the flowers on his desk. Bianca handed them to him just before she left, and he wondered if she had looked up the language of flowers. White tulips were both an apology and a sign of forgiveness. What had she meant by that? Was she apologizing for Maeve's death? Forgiving him for hurting her? Telling him it was okay that he had moved on?

"I don't think so," he replied. He wasn't looking forward to taking a physical apology home with him, not yet, and certainly not from her.

Reid took the book, at her insistence, but left the paper-wrapped bouquet on the desk. When he returned the next day, they were sitting in the bullpen, standing tall in a vase full of water.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Thank you so so much to all of you wonderful folk who read this story. Thanks to smilin steph, LeedsUK, TwilightNewMoonEclipseMidnight, SophiaNevermore, Utau54, Dark-Enough-Conspiracy-Theory, AvikemArruters, SpiceWolf24, and YamiHikariLover for favoriting/following this story!**  
 **And of course I'm incredibly grateful - as always - to ahowell1993, nhaquyen, smilin steph (** I'm so glad you think so! **), Guest (** haha,well thanks! Hopefully you can find some just-as-wonderful real life poetry books! **), Awesome-Sauce25, sarahmichellegellarfan1, and thetracyset for writing such lovely reviews for the last chapter. You all are fantastic!  
**

 **They are now once again, on the same shore, though things are not quite what they were before. For a bit of clarification, I have no desire to rush Spencer through the grieving process. Maeve - and her role in his life - is so crucial to his character development. In my mind, Garcia has complete faith in Bianca's ability to make good on her word: that loving someone is doing what's best for them, even if it means you have to sacrifice what you want. It's that belief that Garcia counted on, and Hotch trusted. Hotch had Jessica and Jack when Haley died, Reid had nobody outside of the team. So I wanted to bring Bianca back as someone who would be willing to listen to him outside of the office. And I hope that will be more apparent soon.**

 **I hope you'll continue to join me over the next few chapters! I'm really excited for you all to see where the story goes from here.  
**


	16. 16) Her Name Was Maeve

Reid left her open invitation hanging for a month and a half. He didn't want to see her, didn't need to talk to her. But then came Minnesota, and Peter falling and turning that pool red despite his best efforts to talk him down. When he lied, it didn't work, and when he told the truth, it didn't work. Then came Hotch cornering him in the office, demanding an explanation for his actions. As if he had to ask. It was clear he'd already profiled the answer himself. _To me, this is very clearly about Maeve._ Wasn't everything these days? Hotch, of all people, should have understood that. Maybe it was time, he thought. Maybe he did need to talk to someone who hadn't been a part of the case, someone who couldn't profile every microexpression and minor action.

After hearing nothing for a month and a half, Bianca was all the more startled when he left her a voicemail, asking her to meet him for coffee. She arrived first at the Starbucks, a strong feeling of déjà vu washing over her. After ordering a coffee and sitting down inside, where it was warm, she was almost afraid he wouldn't show; but then she spotted him, scruffy hair and that navy peacoat.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," he replied. That was a start. Bianca decided it was best to avoid talking about what had happened until he brought it up. Instead, she asked him about his last case and where he had traveled recently. She asked him about the books he was reading, and what Alex Blake was like. In turn, he asked where she had lived in Europe, and what she was doing back in DC.

It was coffee shop small talk, and the formality of it struck her. This was Spencer. She spent almost a whole year with him, going to museums with him and introducing him to her family and holding his hand as they walked the streets of DC. But he had been right, at Quantico that day. She didn't know him, not as he was now. The man she had loved was still there, but what he had been through had changed him. There was a part of him that had been lost when Maeve died, and that was a part of him that she would never be able to reach. It belonged solely to those two. Every pun and letter and Sunday phone call was theirs and theirs alone. Except now, the burden was only his.

She wanted to reach out and hold his hand or envelop him in a hug, but she was afraid that he would break, fragile as he looked. He needed space. Instead they tiptoed around various conversation points, both feeling awkward and anxious, not sure what was allowed and what was not.

"You look thin," he remarked. The words made her cringe.

She bit her lip, glancing away. "It's just from living in Europe for so long. There was way more walking. And way less processed food."

"Garcia told me you moved back four months ago."

Oh Penelope, always digging up the truth. There had been so much stress piling up. Working overseas, figuring out finances, dealing with her family, saying goodbye to her life in The Hague. When it all felt overwhelming, she dealt with it by further draining herself. It wasn't a relapse, she figured she was still self-aware enough to know the difference, but she hadn't exactly been putting much effort into taking care of herself lately.

"I've just been really busy, that's all." She gave him a small smile, reassuring him. "I'm fine."

Spencer fidgeted, pulling at his fingers and pursing his lips, and she could practically see him running over possible things to say in his mind, rehearsing each option. When he finally spoke, it caught her off guard. "I loved her, you know. I love her still."

So he was talking about her already. "I know," Bianca said.

"I loved her so much, and I never even got the chance to tell her that. For ten months, she was everything to me. But…" He was trying to work something out in his head, but the equation was fitting together just right, some sort of impossible puzzle. "But when I saw you, when you stepped out of that elevator… I felt… relieved. And I don't understand why. I couldn't explain it, and I felt guilty, and so I yelled at you. I'm sorry about that," he added.

"It's okay," she assured him.

"I just – I _love_ Maeve. I need you to know that. It wasn't that I was… lonely or something, after you left. There was you, and there was her, and she… she was so incredible." His voice was beginning to shake, and the pieces were falling into place. He was conflicted, the devastation of losing the person he loved, and the strange comfort of seeing a familiar face. Two parts of his heart, tugging at his conscience and confusing his mind.

Tentatively, she reached across the table to put her hand over his, and he didn't flinch away from her touch. He needed someone to talk to, needed someone to listen. All this time she had longed to hold him again, but that wasn't what _he_ needed now. He had found someone who made him happy, only to have that joy stolen, and she was resolved to set aside whatever wishes she had made during the past two years in order to help him heal. Not move on, not forget. Just heal. Recover.

"You don't have to justify anything to me. I know. Spencer, you loved her. I don't know much about her, but I would really like to hear you talk about her, when you're ready for that. Listen, I didn't come here with any expectations. You don't owe me anything, and I'm not asking anything from you. I just want to be here for you. My being here, this is just… family."

Confusion changed his expression as she clarified what she meant. "Family means being there for someone. Loving them unconditionally. A long time ago, you introduced me to your family, and you allowed me to be a part of that. So I'm here just like they are. You and I, we're just old friends. Family helping family." It was the only way she could think to explain their relationship. They knew so much about each other, all the intimate details despite their time apart, and there were only a handful of relationships to fit that description. A romantic one was clearly out. That left friends – which they had been – and family. Not blood relatives, but the people who were through for you through the best and the worst of times, no strings attached.

There was still that deep, untouchable sadness in his eyes, and she squeezed his hand gently. "I never had the chance to meet Maeve. I don't know her. But I know this – you loved her, and she loved you. And if you loved her, then I know for a fact that she was very happy. You made her happy. However short your time together was, her life was better because _you_ were in it."

"Yeah?" he asked timidly.

"Yeah." Four months ago she had moved back to DC, living no less than four miles from his apartment. A month and a half ago she had stood in front of him at Quantico, and roughly an hour ago, he sat down in the seat across from her. In all that time though, she never felt the 4,000 mile gap between them had started to close until that very second.

* * *

Reid sat on a park bench next to her. They used to sit side by side, knees brushing and fingers interlocked, but that was a lifetime ago. A safe gap was between the two of them, almost at opposite ends of the bench but close enough that they could talk without having to raise their voices.

It had been two weeks since he met Bianca at the coffee shop. At first, he didn't want to say anything about Maeve to her. Maeve was _his,_ and their time was special and private. He had hidden her from his team as much as he could, with the exception of Alex, until he needed their help to find her. Even then, they hadn't been privy to his joy, only to his pain.

Reid vowed to himself not to mention a word of Maeve, but somehow it had slipped out. In all their time apart, he'd forgotten how she did that, made it so easy for him to tell her the things he was afraid to say. With Maeve, conversation had been effortless. It would be a lie to say that talking to Bianca now was anything but strained. And yet, when he looked at her he found that familiar warmth in her eyes, promising him that whatever was said would be heard and accepted. So when she asked him to tell her about Maeve, he obliged, to an extent.

Bianca didn't need to know about every word they shared, or the pseudonyms they used, or the way she whispered, _"Bye, love you."_ There were things that he wanted to belong only to him. Her promise to make blindfolds fun again, her kindness, the sound of her laugh. In bits and pieces though, he told her about the beautiful and perfect person that Maeve Donovan had been.

"It didn't really matter what she looked like. All I needed to know was who she was. She was the kind of person who could make puns out of geometry, and read all of the Sherlock Holmes stories, and wrote the sweetest letters. If she had asked, I would have dropped everything to go help her. I never imagined I would be meeting her for the first time in a loft, both of us being held captive. But she was right there in front of me, and she was… she was so beautiful.

"Her hair was auburn, this warm color. Her eyes were bright blue, and it was like fire and water at the same time, together. Right then, I thought I was going to be able to see her every day for the rest of forever." The act of remembering was becoming too much, and he clenched his hands into fists, trying to fight back the urge to cry.

"What did it feel like, when you called her every Sunday? When you were dialing that number on the payphone?"

At first the question seemed invasive, before he realized she had noticed the tears welling up in his eyes and was trying to steer his mind towards a happier memory. "When I called her… I was nervous at first. I thought I was going to be sick from the sensation of butterflies in my stomach. As soon as I heard her voice, everything seemed right. It was the most natural thing in the world. I was always happy talking to her."

He searched for an example, flipped through mental pages of their conversations. In his mind's eye, they were transcribed in her handwriting despite the fact she had spoken them over the phone. "She used to say that she could _hear_ body language. She knew when I was happy or anxious or sad. For a geneticist, she was really good at profiling me."

"Well, it sounds like she learned from the best." Bianca was smiling at him, and Reid couldn't help but wonder what it would have looked like to see Maeve smile – a real smile, one untampered by fear.

"Maeve was… the best thing in my life." At first he had been too nervous to say her name too often, but the more he repeated it, he found that it was a way of keeping her alive. As long as she existed in his mind – and she would forever, that was finally a decent use for his eidetic memory – she wasn't truly gone. _Her name was Maeve. Her name was Maeve._ _Was. Is. Always will be._ It was like how remembering the good things helped to replace the images burned into his brain. It didn't erase them, nothing could, but it covered them with better ones.

Bianca hadn't responded, and Reid wondered if he said something insensitive. Was it impolite to tell someone you once dated how you felt about your last girlfriend? He wasn't sure, having no previous experiences by which to judge it. Clearing his throat and looking away, he asked, "So, uh, did you meet anyone? In Europe?"

She hadn't mentioned anyone before, but she had come there to help him – and she wasn't the kind of person to discuss herself when someone else needed to be heard. That was something he'd always liked about her. She was compassionate, humble, gentle. He hoped she didn't mistake his question for an advance. He wasn't looking to get back together with her, merely curious. That was the sort of small talk old friends made, wasn't it?

"You mean, was I dating someone?"

"Yeah." She must have. He had broken things off, knowing she would fly off to Europe where she was bound to meet some like-minded man and life happily ever after. Reid had never planned on seeing her again. And when he found Maeve, well, he didn't think he would ever _need_ to see Bianca again.

"Oh, um, no… I wasn't. I'm not." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her face turning pink. "I had a lot of good friends, but I was sort of busy and… I wasn't really looking for that."

Reid knew her tells when she was lying, and none of them appeared. She was being honest. It was only then that he believed the words on the last page of her book. In one of the many nights he spent lying awake, he had given in and read the whole thing in a few hours.

 _Across distance and in time  
travels lonely as they sounded, one thing  
is still true._

 _Through it all, I have never  
once stopped loving  
you. _

She meant that. He hadn't been sure before, but the blush still on her cheeks made it obvious that, to some extent, she still felt that way. And she hadn't told him that. Of course not. She still loved him, and loved him enough to put set her own feelings aside, knowing that his heart was with someone else.

* * *

"What is an activist's favorite color?"

Bianca peered up at, waiting for him to take a guess. He had agreed to meet her for coffee once again, knowing that she was still waiting for him to initiate each conversation or meeting between them. It did help, talking to her. Always she was happy to hear about whatever was on his mind that day – details from a case, another story about Maeve, the article on frontal lobe deformities in serial killers he published in the _Journal of Applied Behavioral Sciences_ last week. Not once did she stop listening to him or say he was boring her. While Reid had to compartmentalize at work, set aside what he was feeling as much as he could in order to focus on a case, with her he was able talk about anything.

"I don't know. What?" The question had come out of the blue, and he wasn't certain if she was checking to see if he remembered _her_ favorite color – unlikely, he doubted she'd forgotten his eidetic memory (but just in case, it was blue) – or if there was some universal statistic on advocates and color preferences he didn't yet know.

A mischievous smile crossed her face, as though she could barely contain a giggle. "Anything that's…" Bianca paused for dramatic effect. "Non- _violet_!"

She had even over-emphasized the pun, but Reid only furrowed his eyebrows at her. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"Yeah," she said, clearly letdown by his reaction. "It was supposed to be funny. Come on, Spencer, I spent all day trying to come up with that! And not even a smile."

Was she trying to make him laugh? He shrugged. "Sorry." It wasn't that he was affronted by her sense of humor. Nothing seemed very funny to him these days. Even if something was amusing, he didn't have much energy for laughing.

"What's bothering you today? You look exhausted. Have you been sleeping enough?" Bianca's hand moved to her collarbone, and he'd noticed over the last few weeks that she seemed to do that more often – especially when she was worrying about him. He had a hunch that it had something to do with the fact that she was used to reaching out to reassure him or comfort him, but no longer felt that was admissible. Since that first afternoon at the Starbucks near his building, when she had placed her hand over his, she had been careful not to touch him. Instead she'd developed that nervous habit, fingering her collarbone almost unconsciously.

"Not really." Not really was a little closer to not-at-all than he was ready to admit. He took a large, telltale swig of coffee from his cup.

"Are your migraines back?" she asked. "Or are you having nightmares?"

Reid winced. The latter was true, but it was more complicated than that. There were times he closed his eyes, only to be subjected to those searing images of Maeve and Diane on the floor of the loft. More often than not though, it had been the good dreams that kept him from resting. The fantasy that played on an endless loop each night, Maeve in the library inviting him to dance, and him refusing, knowing that the sweet relief he felt then would turn cold and leave him devastated when he woke up.

It was only yesterday, on the plane home from South Dakota, that he finally allowed himself to hold her close, despite having danced only twice in his life, while Santo and Johnny's steel-guitar _Sleep Walk_ crooned over the record player. When he wasn't dreaming, he was turning himself into an insomniac again, running over every possible way he could've saved Maeve. Walking into the factory in Pittsburgh and seeing the body on the mattress, ZUGZWANG written everywhere in big red letters, had done nothing to help him.

"So, dreams it is then," Bianca said, noting his response. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He wasn't quite ready to dredge up his demons in the waking world. "Not really. I just… I just wanna forget." Not forget _her_ , just forget that those dreams were all that he had left of her.

"Okay. Um, I could tell you a story?" she volunteered. Reid nodded, taking another sip from his coffee cup. Stories, that seemed safe. He'd been the one doing most of the talking whenever they met, Bianca heeding his every word with the attentiveness of a therapist. He was grateful for that, for the way she gave so much to him.

He'd been sure to apologize for all the things he said two years ago, explaining that he feared he was then on the verge of a schizophrenic break. After losing so many people, when the sting of Emily's death was sharp, he had decided he couldn't put her through that. He didn't want her to be hurt that way, and so he had selected the words that would inflict maximum damage in order to push her away before that could happen. It was cowardly and it was cruel, but she just smiled and said that she had always assumed something along those lines. There was a sort of forgiveness that she gave him with every smile, with every indulgent invitation of kindness in her eyes.

Her brown eyes now trailed up to the ceiling, and she chewed her lip as she tried to choose one she thought he'd be interested in. "How about the canals of Amsterdam? I know you love geography. The canals make for one of the most interesting urban layouts. I'm sure you know the names of the major canals." He did. "But do you know the meaning behind all of the names, or how it looks to see streets that wind around the water?"

"No, I don't. Tell me."

She smiled at him again, sitting up straighter in her chair as she began to set the scene for him, making every effort to chase his fears away with tales of a city built on the water. She talked just as he remembered, with detailed imagery and animated hand gestures. Never had he come across another person who said so much with their hands. Rossi was right – talking to someone was definitely better than thinking he had to descend into endless misery alone.

* * *

Author's Note:

 **Firstly, thanks so much to hrtbreaker, Essindra, KitsuneReid, angelangie07, StarHobbit, mvlxn, and Exangellion, for favoriting/following.**  
 **A special thank-you to ripon (** I hope that with time that decision makes more sense **), itsjustjas (** why thank you! **), Dark-Enough-Conspiracy-Theory (** my most sincere apologies for the tear-jerkiness! **), nhaquyen, liviaxellen, smilin steph, spurofthemoment24, sarahmichellegellarfan1, and BenSolosGirl for writing such helpful reviews for the last chapter. They're always so very much appreciated! I love hearing what you all have to say.  
**

 **I also wanted to clarify a question raised by both sarahmichellegellarfan1 and BenSolosGirl about the end of Spencer's relationship with Bianca/beginning of his relationship with Maeve (which I hope was also a bit more clear in this chapter): He didn't break things off simply because of Emily's death. Rather the emotional strain that chronic pain puts on a person affected their relationship; that coupled with his family history of mental illness and losing Emily made things even more difficult. After being reminded of how hard it was to lose someone you loved, and knowing how hard it was to take care of someone who's lost their mind, he decided he didn't want to put her through that. As for hurting her, he was afraid she wouldn't leave otherwise and he wanted her to go on to live her dream. He never expected her to come back to him, and so he moved on, eventually.  
**

 **As for Maeve, she understood him well, and she was also able to stop his migraines. At that point, Reid knew it wasn't schizophrenia causing the pain. Maeve understood him, and they were quite similar in many respects. I think that even without having met her, 101.5 straight days worth of communication was still more than enough for him to care deeply for her. I think their relationship was as real as any for both of them. Sorry if I didn't explain it well previously, I'd been planning on doing that with this chapter. And again, hopefully those things were a bit more clear here, and will continue to make sense.**

 **Thank you all for being patient with me, and sticking with me through 16 chapters so far! Again, I most certainly don't want to rush Reid through this process of grief. I have enjoyed exploring this new relationship between him and Bianca - slightly awkward, hard to define, but important to both of them. Regarding her book, I don't think he's assumed that she still has romantic feelings for him per se, but Reid recognizes that she cares about him on some level. Slowly but surely, they're feeling less and less awkward around each other.  
**

 **I'll see you in Chapter 17!**


	17. 17) Old Friends

On Thursdays they had no classes, and many of the first-year students had taken to spending their Wednesday nights together, usually at some local coffeehouse or bar. This week was one of the latter, and with no other plans, Bianca agreed when some of her closest classmates pleaded for her to join them for once. She wasn't much for bars, but a few hours spent with friends never hurt, especially right after midterms when everyone was looking to de-stress.

They chose the Georgetown Piano Bar, a small place near the main campus that boasted popular piano players and cocktails named for famous musicians. It was a more vibrant atmosphere than most, the piano man cracking jokes between sets and several patrons singing along between drinks. Around the bar, a small group of her classmates were knocking back shots while the remaining students watched with amusement, sipping from glasses of various colors and contents. Presently she was seated between Aiden – an aspiring corporate lawyer with a penchant for political debate – and Tanvi – whose academic propensities leaned towards criminal justice – while placing wagers on which of the students partaking in shots would succumb to inebriation first.

"Definitely Nelson," Aiden was saying. "Guy's the shortest of the bunch, there's no way he can last more than five, tops."

Tanvi eyed the crowd, carefully making her selection. "I'm telling you, my money's on Wagner. He might boast about his wild college days, but I guarantee not one of his keg stand stories are true. Bianca, that leaves you."

Bianca wished she had the option of phoning a friend. A profiler would be far better at making that sort of call. What would Spencer have said? Sipping from some combination of champagne and peach schnapps, named for Tori Amos, she surveyed her friends. Behavior was the easiest thing to analyze, that much she knew. "Montgomery," she decided. He seemed the most uncomfortable, staring at the growing succession of glasses slowly accumulating on the bar. If she could read his behavior even half as well a profiler, she figured she stood a fair chance at winning the annual pass to the National Geographic Museum another student had put up for grabs.

Just as Aiden was starting to ask for her reasoning, someone else interrupted. "Bianca!" Garcia was making her way through the crowd towards her, the drink in her hand nearly the same color as her dress. How did they manage to keep running into each other? Though out of all the BAU members, not counting Spencer, Garcia was the one she felt most comfortable around. "Fancy seeing you here. I wouldn't have pegged you as a piano bar sort of person."

Bianca hopped down from the barstool to greet her. "It's becoming a bit of a Wednesday tradition with my classmates. Midterms were yesterday, so we traded coffee for shots." Her eyes trailed over to the group still working away at the small glasses of alcohol. "Or at least, some of us did. But as far as bars go, I'm pretty impressed. The piano's a nice touch."

Garcia glanced in the direction of the red piano, the man at the keyboard playing a rousing rendition of an Elton John song. "I've been here a few times on weeknights. You know the piano man's name is Spencer?"

What were the odds? There was no physical resemblance between the two men, but it wasn't a stretch to say that Reid could probably match the skills of the musician with only a few minutes of practice. "For some reason, I'm not surprised," she laughed.

"Speaking of which, how's our Spencer?" Garcia asked.

Bianca furrowed her eyebrows. "What do you mean? Don't you see him at work?" The team was away on a case at the moment, likely fast asleep in a motel at this hour. Or at least, she hoped they were. The notion of all of them out so late hunting for an unsub made her uneasy.

"Well, yeah," Penelope said. "But he doesn't talk very much about _her_ with us, you know? Like, he'll mention her sometimes if it's relevant to the conversation or if we prod him on the subject, but otherwise he'd rather focus on different things. He talks to you about her, though, doesn't he?" The analyst was clearly concerned about her friend, and she was reminded again of that close, unbreakable bond shared between members of the BAU.

"He's doing better." That was the truth, Spencer was far better than he had been when they first started talking. Opening up was getting easier, the weight of grief was lifting ever so slightly. It was like watching winter turn to spring, the snow revealing what had been buried for so long under the ice. "Really, he is. And I think having all of you really helps." There was an old proverb, about how joy shared was doubled joy, and grief shared was grief halved. Support from his BAU family, his team and closest friends were precisely what he needed to get through this. They were the people who made him smile, who saw him everyday, and worked his best and worst days with him.

Garcia nodded, a small smile on her face. "That's good. I'm glad he's able to open up to you. By the way, how are you feeling? About him?"

She took a quick drink of the cocktail in her hand, grateful the dim light would hide the blush on her face. "It's just nice to be friends with him again. I missed that."

"Oh, you still like him, don't you?" The small smile on the blonde woman's face was transforming into an excited grin, the wrong idea spreading like wildfire.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do!" Penelope contended. "You wrote the guy a freaking book! If that's not a grand romantic gesture, I don't know what is!"

Poetry, like guitar serenades and skywriting, was an art form universally acknowledged as an expression of love. Next time, she would write a textbook instead. That could only be misconstrued as romantic by… Spencer Reid, of course. Books were entirely out of the question. At this rate would she would have to find some other way to deal with her emotions. Something safe, like knitting. Nobody could read into that. "The book wasn't just about him though. And besides, I wrote that before moving back here. It doesn't count." If this conversation kept up, she was going to need another drink.

"I may be a mere tech goddess, but I'm plenty capable of spotting a lie, and I don't buy that. You _love_ him, admit it!" Love? That word was forbidden when it came to him. Love was something that couldn't be considered, not in the extent that Garcia was implying. The English language was once again woefully lacking in proper explanation. The Greeks though, their terms made sense. She loved him, but it was _philia_ , the love of deep friendship, loyalty and affection. If she loved him right, perhaps it could fall under _agape_ , selfless love, the unconditional love for another. But romance, certainly not.

Penelope's demeanor was more excited than accusatory, but her inference was nothing short of disquieting. "I can't admit something that's not true," Bianca said stiffly. "I care about him, but I don't love him, not like that. The only thing I'm going to be admitting any time soon is defea-" There was a howl of cheering that stole her attention. Across the bar, Jesse Montgomery was slumped in a barstool, the front of his shirt soaked, evidently having missed his mouth by a mile with his last shot.

Tanvi appeared by Bianca's side, grasping her fist and raising it in the air. "We have a winner!" she declared. The gathering of law students erupted into applause and groans alike – particularly from Aiden – and one of the students fiddled in her wallet to withdraw the promised annual pass. There would be no admission of defeat after all. Instead, victory, and she silently thanked Spencer – _her_ Spencer – for her meager knowledge of behavioral analysis.

Grateful for an excuse to escape, she said, "Sorry, Penelope, but I've got to claim a pass to the National Geographic Museum."

"Well, while you're looking at all those exhibits, just remember that denial's not just a river in Egypt!"

* * *

There were still so many things to be relearned. It took weeks before Reid finally began to feel comfortable at work again, believed that he was capable of doing his job without letting his emotions cloud his judgment. Every day was a little easier, tiny burdens alleviated bit by bit. A joke from Morgan that he could finally find funny here, a long conversation with Alex there. It was possible to handle talking to families or walking through crime scenes with more, and stranger still was how talking about difficult things wasn't such an impossibly daunting task anymore.

Certainly the experience was far from normal, though. It was hard to manage cases that were too close to Maeve's, like Peter, the unsub from Saint Paul who cut his throat over the pool. Those things rendered him nearly useless, and it would take him a few hours to fully recover. He avoided payphones like the plague, hadn't read another Conan Doyle book in ages, and found that all of his memories involving blindfolds were bad. Blindfolds never were going to be fun him, it seemed.

Compared to January though, the world was far easier to bear. Reid was determined not to become like Rossi's Uncle Sal, not when there were still books to be read and lives to be saved and dreams to be had. Blissfully, sleep no longer evaded him around every corner. He needed the rest, with the BAU now busier than ever, dealing with standard cases and the Replicator alike.

His nightmares were out in the waking world now, and each time he straightened his perpetually crooked tie in the bathroom mirror he wondered if the break in that case would finally come. It was early when he left for work, the sun just barely making its way over the horizon. Despite his disdain for early wake-up calls, there were already a million things on his mind. The paperwork from the last case, grabbing coffee for the metro ride, wondering if he should've packed a warmer coat, should they be called away to a state that wasn't quite as friendly in the spring. Shuffling out of the nearest bakery, having claimed a muffin and a cup of coffee, he nearly missed her as he was hurrying towards the metro station.

There was a thermos in one hand and a scarf draped haphazardly around her shoulders, her cheeks tinged with pink in the cool morning air. Reid froze, still processing the sight. He knew her classes were there, but he hadn't taken much time to think about just how close she was. All this time, she'd been that close to his apartment, a mere 0.2 miles from the lobby door to the Law Center. He knew that, but it was still a shock to see her in person, strolling down the sidewalk. How many times had she passed by there? In all his morning commutes, he'd never once seen Bianca on her way to class. It was entirely possible, he realized, that she had intentionally avoided crossing paths with him.

Their recent reconciliation would explain the change, if she now felt she had permission to walk in the near vicinity of Capitol Plaza where she didn't before. It occurred to him to call out to her, greet her. But when Reid opened his mouth, he found himself unable to make a sound. The words wouldn't form, his voice caught in his throat. Why was it so hard to simply say her name? It didn't mean anything. That was what friends did, they said hello; he couldn't even manage to do that.

As he tried to rewire his vocal chords to his brain, she turned around, looking just as surprised to see him. Reid thought he must've looked so stupid, standing there with his mouth open and nothing to say. Having spotted him though, her face lit up with a smile, as she raised an arm to wave to him from across the street. No words necessary; Bianca's expression said enough. _Good morning. I'm happy to see you. I hope you have a good day_. He was startled to realize that he felt he knew her well enough once again to assume something like that. Slowly he lifted his own hand to return the gesture, a short wave that must've looked almost as awkward as he felt. It was some consolation to him that she didn't stop smiling, and he wanted to turn the look of uncertainty he wore into something as warm as that.

But by the time he'd managed to form a smile – a real, proper grin – Bianca was already vanishing through the double doors of the Center, her scarf trailing behind her. Next time, he told himself. Next time he would smile at her right away. Next time, he would say her name out loud. Next time, he would let her know that he was glad to see her too. It was yet another epiphany, finding that he _wanted_ there to be a next time at all. The more he saw her, the more comfortable he felt, the more normal. Spencer Reid couldn't manage to read Sherlock Holmes anymore, to say all the right things at work, or to come to terms with the powerful grief he still felt. Being a friend though, having a friend, and confiding in her, those things he could manage.

* * *

Bianca knew he was still healing. On the whole, he seemed to be doing better, but there were still days when he would be talking and suddenly a shadow would fall over his face and he would get that distant look in his eyes, and she would understand. There were things he still couldn't talk about, and there others that still made him cry. She assured him that was okay. His heart had been shattered, and she was there to try and find a way to piece the remains back together from memory.

It was hard to say for sure exactly what they were. She had called them "family" that first day over coffee. "Old friends." There were times when she thought he was starting to fall into old habits, certain manners of speaking when he talked to her, or the way he looked at her. She reminded herself that it was just her mind playing tricks on her, because it had been a very long time since he last felt that way about her. He loved someone else. And so she locked her own feelings away, knowing that they had no place in the present.

It took her by surprise when he called her on a Friday evening, and asked if she would come over to his apartment. He sounded so tired. It was the easiest thing in the world to agree, and she offered to get him dinner, stopping by the grocery store on her way over to his place. She took a deep breath before knocking on the door. It had been so long since she had stood in that very hallway, his door just at the top of the stairs.

For a heartbeat, she thought he might not answer, had changed his mind, but the door swung open and he smiled. "Hey," Spencer said.

"Hi. I brought dinner." She held up the plastic shopping bags.

"That doesn't look like take-out," he remarked, examining them.

"It's not," Bianca laughed. The bags rustled as she sat them on the kitchen counter. "You haven't forgotten that I know how to cook, have you?" she teased.

He shook his head slightly. "It's just been a while."

And it had. The last time she'd been here was the day he invited her over to hear him play piano, eons ago. Since then, his apartment remained largely unchanged, save for a few more books on his shelves, a pile of file folders on his table. It was like returning to an old vacation spot, a place that was partially yours. "Then I guess it's a good thing I'm here to remind you. Now, I know you don't eat much for breakfast during the week, so we're having breakfast for dinner."

"Now you have my attention." Spencer helped her to pull ingredients out of the bags while she rifled through his cabinets for bowls. "We're making pancakes?" he asked.

"Close. _Pannenkoeken._ They're like Dutch crepes."

"I don't know how to make those."

"Well lucky for you, I picked up a thing or two in Europe." There were few things Spencer didn't know, and he had always loved to learn. She wondered how much Maeve had taught him. She had been a genius and a geneticist, someone who understood math and science far better than Bianca ever could. Someone like that was a true equal for him, someone whose mind could make connections and solve the most puzzling of equations. It wasn't a feeling of jealousy, but of inferiority. Did he ever find _her_ boring?

"So," Bianca said, pushing the thought away, "We'll start with the flour and salt first." This was the only kind of chemistry she knew, the art of blending things together in a kitchen instead of a lab. He passed her various measuring utensils, and she showed him how to fold the batter in. They placed two frying pans side by side on the stove, and she demonstrated how much to pour in just the right amount of batter.

She tried to show him how to flip one without using a spatula, shaking it in the pan as Eva had shown her, before thrusting the pan upwards with a flick of the wrist and catching the thin pancake neatly. Bianca was suddenly grateful for the hours she spent with Eva and Lorenzo in her friend's Dutch apartment, trying and failing to flip a pancake. It hadn't been all for nothing after all. With intense concentration, Spencer lifted the frying pan, misjudging the arc of the fall, and the half-cooked pancake landed with a splat on the floor. She couldn't help but burst out laughing at the sight of his reaction. He picked up talents naturally, so it was funny to see him dismayed at the sight of the smeared batter at his feet. And then, miraculously, he laughed too.

How she had missed that sound. That laugh seemed to a lift a spill, washing away something heavy that had settled over them months ago. They stood there in the kitchen, doubled over laughing, a grin stretching across his face, and before she knew it her stomach hurt and she couldn't remember the last time she had found something so amusing. The faint smell of smoke brought her back to her senses, and she took long breath in to calm herself. Her _pannenkoek_ was turning black in the pan. She frantically shoveled it onto the plate by the stove, but the bottom had burned entirely.

"I don't know whose is less edible," Spencer chuckled, and that started both of them laughing all over again. Bianca grabbed paper towels to help him wipe the batter from the floor, and they each tried again. Spencer decided it was best to stick to a spatula for now. By the time they drained the bowl of pancake mix, they had cooked nine between the two of them.

"What now?" he asked, glancing at the thin stack of Dutch pancakes.

"Next, we add toppings," she said, pulling more grocery items from the bags on the table. He looked over her shoulder, eager to see what she bought. Bianca extracted a small tin of cinnamon, chocolate chips, powdered sugar, a tiny bear-shaped container of honey, strawberries, two bananas, a pear, goat cheese, blueberries, and Nutella. "I wasn't sure what you might want, so I just got a little of everything. Besides, I figured you probably needed some more food here." She had guessed – correctly – that Spencer hadn't gone grocery shopping in a while. Grief could do that to a person.

"But this," she added, pulling out the last item. "This I knew you would want." She set the can of whipped cream before him, a simple grocery store gift.

"You know me too well," he said, already reaching for the can.

There were files and maps and books still scattered on the only table big enough for two people and their utensils, so they carried their plates over to the couch to eat. She layered thin slices of pear over goat cheese and honey on her single pancake; he had stacked three on his plate – her own badly burned creation among them, at his own insistence - and covered them in strawberries and chocolate chips, topped with powdered sugar and a generous tower of whipped cream.

"This is genius," he said between bites. That particular word choice made her suddenly feel awkward.

"How so?" she asked.

"You could have pancakes for every meal. Pancakes for breakfast, crepes with cheese for lunch, and these for dinner."

"I don't think that's the definition of genius," she said. "And I think you're forgetting to include vegetables." Her thoughts drifted back to what Garcia had told her about Maeve. A brilliant geneticist, scientist, and avid reader. A genius.

"What do you think genius is then?" he asked, trying to evenly distribute his mountain of whipped cream.

Bianca frowned. Definitions, those were something she understood, but she didn't think he was asking for the kind found in a dictionary. "I guess," she ventured. "A genius is someone who's really brilliant. Someone who's good at math or science and uses their talents to better the world." A mental Miriam-Webster entry was formed. _Genius (n):_ _see also,_ _Dr. Maeve Donovan or Dr. Spencer Reid._

"Why just limit it to math and science though?" Spencer asked the question with a tilt of his head. "I mean, the MacArthur Genius Grant has been given to sociologists, painters, journalists, playwrights, historians, community leaders, and even dancers. Alex Blake is brilliant, and she's a linguist. And what about you?"

"Me? I'm hardly a genius," she laughed.

Spencer shrugged. "You _are_ smart. And you work hard. Then there's your poems, not just anybody can write like that. Besides, Albert Einstein said that genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent-"

"Perspiration," she finished. Was he saying that it didn't matter to him if she was unable to match his IQ level? That she didn't bore him after all?

It seemed so, because then he said, "It's a shame there's no way to get a PhD for expert poem writing and impressive pancake flipping. Besides, when you get that _juris doctorate_ two years from now, you'll be Doctor Brown. Though you don't look much like Christopher Lloyd." It was a reference to a classic 80's movie, one she knew from pop culture, but not personal experience.

"Would you believe me if I said I've never watched _Back to the Future_?" Spencer swore that she had to watch it; he even owned a VCR copy. It was a Friday night, and she had no other plans, so she agreed. They rinsed the dishes and packed the remaining groceries away in the kitchen before he turned on the ancient TV.

It was nearly ten o'clock by the time Doc Brown, Marty, and Jennifer climbed back into the DeLorean to head to 2015, but Bianca never could stand cliffhangers for very long. "Do you have the sequel?" she asked him, as the credits rolled.

"I have the entire series, actually. You want to see _Part II_?"

"Of course! I want to know what was so urgent that they had to go to 2015!" He hopped off the couch to change the tapes, and they settled in for the next movie, keeping a safe few inches between them. She thought the plot would be enough to shake the tiredness tugging at her, but by eleven she had nodded off on the couch.

Spencer didn't realize it until her head fell against his shoulder. He thought about waking her up, but she was already sleeping so soundly. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, and he reached for the remote to turn off the television. Carefully, he sat up, using one hand to lay her head on the plaid couch pillow. If she was that tired, she must have needed the sleep. Bianca told him she had nowhere to be tomorrow morning, and he didn't want to make her walk all the way home at this hour. Nor was he particularly wanting to drive so late, feeling sleepy himself.

No, it was best to let her sleep there on the couch, he decided. There was still a blanket folded on the end table, and draped it over her. How many nights had he spent on that same couch with Maeve's book clutched in his arms? Too many. Those nights had been plagued with nightmares and grief, but Bianca looked completely relaxed, her feet not even reaching the opposite end of the couch.

Seeing her there pulled at something deep in his heart, and the flood of old memories he had built such a thick barrier against threatened to break through, traces of unwarranted flashbacks trickling into his consciousness.

Bianca, standing outside the BAU two years ago with a smile on her face. Bianca, holding his hand in an art gallery. Kissing him under the stars. Dancing with him slowly, a pair of Converse under her dress. Bianca, sitting at the foot of that same couch and tracing patterns across his chest.

And then Maeve, making a pun about the Penrose triangle. Leaving him the same book he had bought for her. Having to watch as Diane put her mouth on his. Maeve, being shot right in front of him while he watched helplessly. _It wasn't fair._ He swallowed hard and pushed his hair back, reminding himself to breathe in and out until the tightness in his chest subsided.

Reid was used to the devastation, the sorrow and mourning and longing. He had felt remorse and regret, and guilt for not getting there in time. He could clearly identify that sort of guilt. This was different; a thorn in his side that he surmised had something to do with the girl sleeping on his couch.

* * *

Author's Note:

 **I'd been hoping to get this chapter up earlier, but I've been quite sick this week, and I wanted to make sure I had this chapter looking precisely how I wanted before posting it.**

 **Thanks so very much to Arsenico, LeopardFeather, bluefroggy78, ruler of the ice dragons, Itsjustjas, and CandyMe21 for following/favoriting!**  
 **And all my gratitude to sarahmichellegellarfan1 (** I'm glad it made sense haha! **), ahowell1993, hfcmfan2013 (** thank you so very much! I think for her, loving him means accepting that it might not always be the sort of love she wants, but rather the kind that he needs **), Annonymus (** it means very much to me that you think so! Thank you! **), and ripon for writing such fabulous reviews. I'm always so thankful to hear from you all, and your feedback means so much to me. You're are the best!**

 **This chapter was so fun to write, mostly because things between Bianca and Spencer _are_ fun again. It's always interesting to put either of them in different situations, and giving them the space to explore their friendship has been interesting to say the least.  
**


	18. 18) The History of Love

When he had arrived in the Mission District, the entire team was startled by Reid's reappearance. He'd realized something then – firstly, about the unsub's motivations, but secondly, that the his team cared about him; and maybe the best way to heal was to be with them, working rather than wallowing alone in his apartment.

Reid knew that Hotch understood his situation better than anyone. The unit chief told him that it would take time to move forward. " _How much time?_ " he had asked, his voice cracking, sounding so broken as he begged for Hotch to tell him that this feeling could be fixed.

It was Hotch he went to now for advice, knocking lightly on the office door. "Come in," he said from inside. Reid closed the door behind him as Hotch looked up from his desk.

"Reid," he said, surprised. "Is something wrong?"

"No. Um, well, not really. I don't think?" Reid was stumbling over the words. "I just wanted to ask you something… because I think you would understand. I need advice."

Hotch folded his hands, his face still poker-straight. "Is this about Maeve?"

"Sort of," he admitted. How was he supposed to begin this conversation? Every week he seemed to be crossing into a new kind of uncharted territory. How to love, how to grieve, how to move forward, how to forgive and apologize and reconcile. He could still remember that vivid dream, music playing in the library and dancing slowly with Maeve in his arms, every bit of her feeling as real and tangible as she had been when she was alive.

"Hotch, you love … Haley _and_ Beth?" He could still remember talking to Garcia that day on the plane, explaining how male widowers tended to move on faster than females. He never imagined that statistic would be relevant to his own life.

A flash of understanding passed over Hotch's face. He hadn't been expecting _that_ question. "I do," he said steadily. "Haley and I were high school sweethearts. We were married young, and back then neither one of us had expected my career to become what it is. It was hard for her to deal with that, which is why she left. It was hard for both of us, but that doesn't mean we stopped caring about each other.

"When she died, I wasn't sure I would ever recover, let alone meet someone else. I thought that would be betraying her. But then I met Beth. And I realized that above all else, Haley and I wanted the other to be happy. If it had been me in her place, I wouldn't have wanted her to avoid loving someone. I would have wanted her to be happy, and living her life to the fullest. When I realized that, I knew that Haley would want the same for me."

Love was wanting what was best for each other. If that was true for Hotch and Haley, didn't it follow that it could be true for him? "Are you asking me this because you've found yourself caring about someone?"

Reid gulped, nodding. "But you waited two years and nineteen days after Haley's murder. Even then, you worried it was two soon. It's only been five months and twenty-six days since Maeve died. How can I love someone for ten months, and spend two thousand, four hundred and twelve hours communicating with her, only to… to think about someone else so soon?" The question was laced with pain, recalling what she had told him as the record player spun. _I want to hold you once before I'm a ghost of a memory_. He wasn't about to let that happen.

"What you feel for someone else doesn't negate how much you loved Maeve. That's not how love works. We have a place in our hearts for each person, and nobody cancels out the place of another. You cared about Prentiss, didn't you?" Reid nodded. "But you're close with Alex. Does that mean you no longer value your friendship with Prentiss?"

"No," he said slowly. "I'm friends with both of them."

"I know love and friendship aren't the exact same feelings, but I'm trying to make a point here. I love Beth, but that doesn't mean I don't still love Haley, and caring about Haley doesn't mean I can't love Beth. Neither replaces the other. Rossi was married three times, but he still loved Caroline even after they had divorced. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I think the person you're talking about is someone you've cared about for a long time anyways."

Reid glanced down, and Hotch knew his guess was correct. "But that's the problem," he said softly. "If I still care about her, isn't that like saying that I never loved Maeve in the first place?"

It was terribly difficult, trying to reconcile the two in his head. There were similarities, certain overlaps between them. They shared a sense of generosity, a deep compassion for other people, and a general aversion of shallow or vapid things. They were intelligent and kind, but for all the things that connected them, there were disparities. Maeve was tall, she was brilliant in ways that most people he knew were not. She found his geometry puns to be funny, and she shared his love for science. Her voice was gentle and whispery, and she made his heart flutter, and she just _got_ him. She had understood him so well, better than anyone. He would've told her any secret just to hear her response.

And Maeve was gone.

Bianca was most certainly alive, and that fact made things worse, rubbed salt in the wound that was all that remained of his heart. She was short and while she was smart, her intelligence was rooted in language and history, not numbers and chemistry. She would happily listen to him ramble on about physics, but had little desire to solve equations herself. And yet, she would do whatever it took to understand him, willing to hear any secret he needed speak out loud. At times he felt she was looking right through him, and yet she accepted every last strength and flaw she found buried in his heart. While she had given so much of herself and her time to him so selflessly, while he was so grateful for that, she still wasn't _Maeve_. And wasn't ready to let her go just yet.

"Not at all," Hotch said. "I think you loved this girl, and when she left, you moved on. And you loved Maeve very much. Reid, I saw how devastated you were when you realized she had been abducted. You loved her, and I don't have to be a profiler in order to see that. But I think that to some extent, you still cared about Bianca. I'm not saying that feeling was romantic. But when someone is that important in your life for that long, you don't just stop caring about them overnight. In some way, they continue to matter."

He could still recall what he'd told Alex not long ago: _"What's rare is finding someone who makes us happy."_ The two had stood on the same pavement as Emma and John Churchill ran into each other's arms; two colleagues, watching the same scene. The difference was that Alex had someone to return to and embrace, he didn't. That familiar place in his chest had ached. It wasn't until the evening Bianca fell asleep on his couch that he reconsidered the idea that he no longer had someone he hold on to, but Reid had immediately rejected the notion.

Everything was so complicated. Bianca was his first serious relationship; Maeve, she had been engaged to the only other person she had dated, a fact that had made him worry he would seem inexperienced. They both had loved one other person, and they both had moved on.

On one hand, he never thought he would see Bianca after they broke up, but he couldn't deny that seeing her had brought some hint of happiness. But she was only there because Maeve had died. If she was there, Maeve was gone. If Maeve was there, Bianca was gone, and might have never heard from her again. How was he supposed to sort out all of those emotions if things just became more tangled up the harder he thought about it? If Maeve were alive, this wouldn't be a problem. But now that she was gone, it was impossible to make any decisions without a stab of guilt.

"Reid." Hotch's voice broke through his thoughts again. "There's no formula for how this sort of thing is supposed to go. You have to find your own answer, and that answer can only be wrong if you believe you're not allowed to be happy anymore."

* * *

As the weather turned warmer, so thawed her relationship with Spencer. That night she made pancakes with him, she fell asleep on his couch. Waking up, the first thing she'd noticed was the scent of the blankets – coffee, ivory soap, and something that reminded her of autumn, so different from the blankets on her own bed. It took a minute to place just how she recognized that aroma, until she realized that the blankets, and the sofa they covered, smelled just like _Spencer_. After making that connection, after noticing she was in fact on his couch, that morning had been alarming and embarrassing, unable to believe she'd been so careless. For a few days after that, things seemed uncomfortable between them and Bianca feared that she'd managed to ruin things, but without explanation Spencer came back around as though it never happened, or at least as though it didn't bother him anymore.

It probably had something to do with the fact that the Replicator was gone as well. No more terrifying messages or copycat crimes, the team could finally rest easy once more. Things had been busy for him at work while the BAU mourned the loss of Chief Strauss, but things were starting to wind down in her own life. Summer was quickly approaching, and Bianca was looking forward to having only two classes a week until the fall term.

The weekend before she had a paper on civil procedures due, she closed her textbooks after lunch, deciding that after six hours of studying it was time for a break. After so many hours with textbooks the first thing she wanted to do was find a book completely unrelated to law. It didn't always make sense, the way that words seemed to be the perfect distraction _from_ words, but if there was any lesson to be learned from the last two years, it was that life rarely made as much sense as it should have.

The library smelled strongly of old books and paper, welcoming and strong. In the warm lights she browsed the shelves, until something else caught her eye. As familiar as the scent of books themselves, she would have recognized that back anywhere – the long hair, the blue cardigan, the black sneakers which had seen far too much wear.

"Spencer?"

And there he was, turning to see her, the corner of his mouth sliding ever so slightly upwards as he whispered a hello. "Study break?" he asked.

She nodded. "I had to get out of my apartment and do something that didn't involve judicial resolutions or statues of limitation. What about you?"

Happiness, even the smallest amount, was capable of changing his expression so entirely. Books were among the few things that could always manage to make him feel better. "Just looking for a distraction." There was no need to ask what he sought a distraction from. Cases, always cases, Maeve's or otherwise.

Spencer stood there, hands in his pockets, waiting for something. He made no move to leave, didn't seem in hurry to get anywhere else. Was he waiting for her to say something? This was something new, the two of them running into each other like this, an unplanned meeting. Every other encounter was either initiated by him, or relegated to mere greetings when they passed each other every few mornings. And yet, he seemed to want to talk to her, watching her expectantly. Maybe it was _her_ turn, maybe he was waiting for her to ask.

Bianca tried to push back the desperate hope, to hide the eagerness from her voice. "Can I join you?"

A grin, a wonderfully lopsided grin. "I'd like that." It was the first time she'd invited herself into his presence, and it felt so nice to finally do so. They walked the aisles together, pointing out various titles that caught their attention. She quizzed him on the Dewey Decimal system while he accrued a large stack of books to check out.

In 368 – folklore – she asked him how he was doing. He missed her still, he replied, and he'd been going over some of their earliest phone booth conversations. Those were among the happiest memories, not tainted by _what-if_ s. In 261 – social theology – he told her about a particularly slow day at work, when he and Blake had put Morgan to shame by winning some semblance of a rap battle. It was strictly limited to recitations of Nas, and in a stunning upset the two doctors managed to correctly perform more lyrics to more songs than Derek. The key was remembering the words, not necessarily performing them well. Bianca would have paid to see that. 521 – celestial mechanics – was where she explained how Dutch fries were so different from American fries. They were typically served slathered in mayonnaise, sometimes even with peanut sauce, curry ketchup, or raw onions. One store in Amsterdam had hit it big by introducing a sauce infused with cannabis smoke. Even more amusing, in Spencer's opinion, was that the Dutch term for café au lait literally meant _wrong coffee_. "I have to agree," he laughed. "I drink coffee for the espresso, not the flavor. That's what sugar is for."

In 811 – American poetry – he startled her when he pulled her latest book off the shelf. She wanted to reach up and slap the anthology from his hands before he could get a good look at it, but to her horror, he announced that Garcia had given him a copy; which he finished a few months ago. Bianca's whole face burned, but to her relief he said nothing else on the subject. Perhaps he assumed that since she had published it so long ago those feelings were no longer there, or that her poems were referring to someone else. How could he though? It was titled _To That One_.

But as they continued, he seemed perfectly amiable, and her mortification slowly evaporated. Until 641 – food and drink. There were dozens of cookbooks, everything from brunch guides to hospitality instructions. There was even a short division, the numbers incredibly specific thanks to Melvil Dewey's brilliant classifications, for international recipes. 641.59492 was the section devoted to cookbooks relevant to the Netherlands, and it was there that something stole her attention. The title was in bold letters, _The Art of Dutch Cooking_ , and she moved to grab for it, ready to make a joke to him about his pancake cooking technique. Evidently he had the same idea, for they reached up at the same time, their hands meeting just before the spine of the book.

There was a brief moment where they both froze, their fingers touching, skin on skin that somehow created a sensation she could only describe as a spark, shocking her to her core and shaking her bones; and in the next heartbeat they yanked their hands back, flustered. Bianca felt her face turn red again, and Spencer dropped half of the books he was already carrying, titles tumbling to the floor. She started to bend down to assist him, but she stopped just as suddenly, afraid they might bump into each other again. She wasn't supposed to touch him. She wasn't _allowed_ to touch him, wouldn't let herself take that chance. Instead she stood there awkwardly as he shoved the books back under his arm and they made a beeline for the checkout desk, _The Art of Dutch Cooking_ abandoned entirely.

This was her fault; this was what she got for asking if she could be near him. By now, she should have known better. Outside the doors of the building, they hastily parted ways, rushed promises of "see you later." It didn't seem possible to get away fast enough.

Bianca had only just arrived back in her own apartment when her phone rang, nearly startling her heart from her chest. It was only Eva, calling to say hello. "What's wrong wit you?" she asked. "You sound like you've jus' seen a ghost or something."

"It's nothing. I just walked up the stairs, I'm out of breath." She settled into the bay window in her living room, pressing her forehead against the window pane.

"Is this about tha' guy again? Spencer?" Bianca said nothing, knowing her voice would betray her. "Are you over him yet _bichette_?" This was Eva's perpetual question to her, a refrain she dreaded hearing each time they talked.

"I told you, it's not like that anymore. We're just friends."

Aoibhegréine's response stung with biting sarcasm. " _Really_? Because you sound jus' as nostalgic as ever. I think you still like him. You're lying to yourself." Hitting the nail right on the head, as her filterless friend so often did.

"Eva, he lost his girlfriend! Whatever we had, it's in the past."

"Have you ever considered tha' he might feel the same way?"

"That's impossible. He doesn't, and he won't." It was too soon, far too soon. Someday, he would move on though. And when that someday came, it certainly would not involve her. Bianca had come to terms with that long ago.

Eva was unconvinced, sounding indignant from the other end of the phone. " _Bichette_ , you love him. I don't see what the problem is."

The problem? "Feeling that way is the entire problem! Eva, he needs someone to be there for him, and feeling that way… I'm horrible for doing that."

There was a snort, and when the other woman replied it was with a harsh tone. "Oh, give me a break!" Bianca was taken aback by the obvious impatience, the petulance with which her friend spoke. "D'you know what makes someone a bad person? People who hurt other people intentionally. People who take pleasure in making others feel weak. People who are ignorant and prejudiced. People who commit crimes against humanity. Have you done any o' tha' lately?"

"No, but-"

"But nothing! Stop being so damn stubborn and listen to me! You're allowed to feel things! You think tha's an offense now? You'd better go back and read those law textbooks again. _Oh, I care more deeply about you than originally planned._ Tha's not a crime, tha's what makes you who you are. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You're twenty-seven, woman! So grow up, get over yourself, and find out if he feels the same way."

Bianca clenched her free hand into a fist. Her fingers still felt too warm, the way they had since leaving the library. "I'm not ready to know the answer to that," she said quietly.

A sigh from the other line. It was easy to imagine Eva sitting on a couch and pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Bianca. Take it from someone who's engaged, you're never gonna _be_ ready. There's none o' being ready, it's jus' being brave."

"When he finds out, he's going to hate me."

"You don't know tha'. But you can find out. Look, I called to tell you tha' Lorenzo and I are getting married in February, so you could save the date. D'you think I had any idea, when we first started dating, tha' we would end up together like this? But we were honest wit each other, and we're both happier now because o' it. Whatever happens, it has to better than pretending your feelings don't matter."

Hanging up the phone, her stomach felt tied in knots. Spencer was going to know sooner or later. He was a profiler, and eventually he was going to realize what she was hiding from him. When that happened, he would surely be upset with her. It was a conflict of interest, helping someone to grieve their dead girlfriend while harboring romantic feelings for them. Perhaps a better person would have admitted that, would have stopped seeing him altogether before someone wound up disillusioned.

 _Selfish_ , she thought bitterly. _That's what I am._ She was being so selfish. She wanted to be near him, wanted to keep seeing him no matter how much it hurt her now, not matter how much it would hurt him later. Life seemed more complete with him in it, and the thought of saying goodbye once again was unbearable. She would do anything just to stay by his side, to see him every day. Every smile, every laugh, she wanted to see them all, wanted every last rambling lecture or lopsided grin to be hers. She wanted to be the cause of the expressions that lit up his face and put a sunrise to shame. Spencer's presence was as vital as the air itself; her drug of choice would always be him. She needed him, even if he didn't need – even if he didn't _want_ – her.

* * *

They fell together slowly. When they first met, everything was new and grand, like a composition denoted _allegro_ , meant to be played vivaciously and quickly, both of them excited to discover the other. This was like a waltz, familiar, gentle. He started asking to see her more often, and she finally felt that it was okay for her to call him first sometimes. When they were together he met her eyes more often, and retreated within himself less. His smile became a more common sight, and he had even started calling her by her nickname from time to time.

Still, everything was hesitant and shaky, even gestures. When he worked up the nerve to hold her hand, he had let his hand brush against hers for a few seconds to see what she would do; and when she tentatively wrapped her fingers around his, she did so with the lightest of touches to see if he would pull away.

He didn't.

It was like they were caught in a game of always asking permission. Can I hold your hand? Can I try to make you laugh? Do you mind if I buy you coffee? Will you run away if I say that I missed you? All these questions passed between them unspoken, wondering if they had stepped over a line or broken a boundary.

At first she thought she was imagining it. She had found him so broken, after all. But they saw each other more frequently, and he didn't shy away from conversation about things bigger than the weather or pancakes. If what she thought was happening was real, she didn't want to rush him. After all, he had lost the person he loved most, and she was sensitive to that. At the same time, she didn't want to lose _him_ again.

For his part, he was still trying to navigate these new feelings. Technically they were old feelings, but there had never been anyone to compare Bianca to before. They had both been each other's first serious relationship. He had never experienced the conflict that came with loving two people in that way. Maeve was still with him, carried in his heart every day, but that finally felt more like a privilege and less like a mournful burden, a reminder of what he could have had, but lost. But that didn't mean he had to lose Bianca too.

They were both afraid to begin something. To name it or to act on it felt forbidden. She didn't want to try and replace Maeve, and she had promised not to expect anything of him, that he didn't owe her anything. Reid was worried that rekindling those feelings would cause Maeve to disappear from memory, or that Bianca would assume he was only trying to forget.

 _It's not a date,_ they told themselves. He was only asking her if she wanted to go the Smithsonian as a friend. She was only inviting him to dinner so they could talk. They were reluctant to hope, to believe that the other felt the same way.

Morgan and JJ occasionally dropped a hint, questions that asked if he was with her without _really_ asking. Garcia texted her from time to time, attempting to deduce whether or not they were together. Both avoided answering.

For nearly three months they kept that up. Avoiding, evading, denying. Is it okay for me to sit close enough for our knees to touch? Will you be upset if I rest my head on your shoulder? Can I love you?

 _Can I?_

Finally, she caved. They were sitting on a blanket in the park, a book in each of their hands. He was reading Conan Doyle's _The Lost World_ when she suddenly looked up from her copy of _The History of Love._ She set the book down beside her, and he glanced her way, curious as to what had compelled her to stop reading.

"I need to be honest with you," she said, and he braced himself for whatever was to come next. Had he gone too far? Had he said something wrong? Was she tired of spending her time with a man who still loved a ghost? "Spencer, your friendship means the world to me. And I never want to stop being friends with you." _Please don't leave,_ he prayed. _Stay, oh god please stay._

She clasped her hands in her lap to keep her fingers from trembling. "If you… if you don't want to be around me anymore, I'll understand, but I can't keep holding this inside. I just need to tell you, and then I promise that's all. I'm not asking for anything from you. I just can't keep lying to myself, pretending that I don't feel this way."

He sat frozen on the blanket; afraid to make any sudden moves and scare her away, afraid to breathe too loudly even. "I care about you. I care about you very much," she told him, her voice shaking. Could she say those words to him? Was she allowed to feel that way? "I never stopped caring about you. And I know that this isn't fair of me, and I know that you love someone else but I - I love you."

His mind was moving too quickly, because it was unfathomable that this girl could care about him still, that she could still _want_ to be near him after everything that had happened between them. For the same reason he had been worried that Maeve would reject him for his scruffy appearance and weirdness, he'd never dared to hope that Bianca would still care about him, unshaven and broken as he was then. He had read her words, but in the seven months since Garcia had given him that book he figured she would have surely given up when she saw the state he was in.

But she was still talking - why was she still talking? "I'm being selfish, but I just thought you deserved to know, and I didn't want to lie to you, and I'm sorry and if you're mad at me I understand." That's what she thought? "I get it, just, I just couldn't keep letting you think that I didn't feel that way but-"

She stopped abruptly when she felt his arms around her, and even if she wanted to continue she had lost her breath in surprise. Her lungs were struggling to remember how to breathe, all her attention focused on the sensation of his embrace. His hands gripped her tightly, and he barely had to speak above a whisper for her to hear, close as he was. He didn't think had the strength to speak much louder than that anyhow. "I'm not mad at you. I care about you. I _need_ you. I have for a long time, and not just because you've supported me through all of this."

She could feel her lip begin to quiver, but she kept her hands firmly at her sides, unable to give herself the permission to touch him as he was touching her. "When you came back to Quantico, I felt relieved, and I couldn't understand why that was, not until a few months ago. No matter what, you're still important to me. I loved Maeve, and I think I always will but…"

This was the hardest part, the part where he said what he never got the chance to say to Maeve. But he needed to; he had to let her know that what he felt was so much more than mere gratitude or obligation; that he needed her not as an emotional sounding board, but for who she was and how she made him feel. _This isn't forgetting her. This isn't betraying her. This is finding my own answer._ "I love you, too."

Only then did she let herself hold him as she had wanted to do for so long, crying silently into his sweater as he buried his face in her shoulder. When he finally released her, she reached up with her hand as slowly as she could, making sure he could see what she was doing as she touched his cheek. She bit her lip, looking up at him and silently asking for his permission. _Is this okay?_ He asked himself that, before deciding that, yes, it was. If it was her, it was. When he made no move to pull away and his mouth finally turned to a smile, she scooted closer to him, and with a careful precision leaned in to press a kiss to that smile, giving him the chance to back away if he changed his mind.

He didn't.

To his surprise, it didn't feel like letting go, not really. It felt like believing again.

That Monday, when she woke to a text from Penelope, asking for the umpteenth time about her and Reid, Bianca replied, _why don't you ask him?_ Then quickly, to Spencer: _sorry._

He was walking towards his desk when he received her cryptic message; ready to ask what she was apologizing for when he looked up from his phone. Garcia was whispering something excitedly to JJ, and both Morgan and Rossi wore a smirk. "Good to know you're still playing, playa," Morgan said, lightly punching his arm.

Hotch raised an eyebrow as he hurried down the steps towards them, but when JJ gave him a knowing nod, he too cracked a small smile. _It's okay,_ Spencer wrote back. Things were finally beginning to feel okay again.

* * *

 _"There is only one way to be happy, and that is to make somebody else so." – Robert G. Ingersoll_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **In lieu of Gideon, I feel Hotch has been very much a father figure for Reid, and their shared experience only strengthened that.  
For time-frame purposes, it's been roughly 8 months since Maeve's death here.**

 **And of course, I want to say thank you to all of you for continuing to read this story! Thanks to Consulting Demon, readercub410, ImpossibleSenseinNonsense** (that's such a fun screen name!), **Insiyah786, ShadowGuardianAngel, I love ebook, and kotono3 for favoriting/following!**  
 **I'm especially grateful to** **ahowell1993** (all I can say is that I've written that scene, and a conversation like that comes up at some point in the future), **spurofthemoment24** (that question might become more important in the next few chapters...), **ripon, and sarahmichellegellarfan1 for leaving reviews for the last chapter. You all are the best!  
**

 **And if things seem to have been resolved too neatly... well, I'll simply say it's not quite resolved. Yet.**


	19. 19) Kintsukuroi

_"Grief is not as heavy as guilt, but it takes more away from you." – Veronica Roth_

* * *

Bianca turned around, her eyes wide. "Wait," she said, with a gasp. "You mean I can finally meet your mother?"

"Yes," he assured her. "I think's well overdue." Reid had just asked if she would be up for traveling to Las Vegas sometime soon, and her response was a clear and enthusiastic _of course._

"When?" she asked, hardly able to contain her excitement at the prospect of finally meeting Diana Reid.

"Whenever you want to go."

"This weekend?"

He laughed. "I think I might need a little more time in order to request one of my vacation days. It might take a bit longer, since we're without a section chief." Honestly, he was happy to see that she still wanted to meet his mom. It had been so long since she had first asked him that question. As she had already proven though, that woman had an uncanny knack for recalling things when he was involved.

His phone began to ring, and he hurried to silence it, not wanting to be interrupted. No sooner had he done so did it ring again, and he sighed just as a librarian poked her head around the corner, shushing him with a glare.

"Sorry," he whispered back. "Really, I am." He understood the sacred quiet of the library, but serial offenders did not, nor did they respect his free time. "Reid," he said into the phone.

"Why are you whispering?" JJ asked from the other end.

"Because I'm in a library and pretty certain that if I so much as sneeze above this volume the librarian is going to revoke my book-borrowing rights." Beside him Bianca was trying to stifle a giggle.

"Right… well, we just got a case. There's been four women found dead in South Carolina, and a fifth has just gone missing. All of the victims were strangled and sexually assaulted. How fast can you get here?"

"I don't know… twenty minutes?"

"Good, because Hotch wants wheels up in thirty."

"Duty calls?" Bianca asked, looking more than a little forlorn. He nodded, and she squeezed his hand. "Go on, then. Just come home safely."

"I will. And when I get back, we'll make that trip," he promised, already making his way out of the stacks.

He had promised her that. He _had_ promised her.

That was before three days of investigation turned up records of missing women dating ten years back, the number reaching into the twenties. And it was before they turned up at the house of Simon Douglass in Charleston, a cookie-cutter home in a suburban neighborhood just around dinnertime.

The police presence drew the attention of the neighbors, many of them stepping out onto their lawns to see what was going on. Some shouted questions at them, while the officers urged them to go back inside. The commotion only seemed to interest the crowd more.

"There's a large storage shed in the back," Hotch said, ignoring the growing presence of onlookers. Rossi and Morgan had gone to Douglass' work address nearby, on the off chance he was still there, leaving only four of them at the house. "Blake, JJ you take the shed. Reid, you go in through the back, I'll enter through the front. It looks like the house is three levels including a basement, so if they're not on the first floor, I want you to go upstairs."

A gunshot rang out from inside, breaking the stillness of the air and inciting panic in the crowed. "Go!" Hotch shouted, and they took off. Reid followed Rossi and JJ to the backyard, hastily pushing open the fence gate and sliding the screen porch door to the side. He heard the front door opening as Hotch stepped in from the other side, but a quick survey of the kitchen and the dining room showed yielded no evidence of someone being there. He looked to the unit chief, who nodded, making his way to what looked to be the basement door as Reid ran up the stairs, his gun drawn in front of him.

There was no one at the top of stairs, so he moved slowly down the hall, clearing each corner before going further. Only one door was open, and he stepped inside warily. It was a bedroom, and he could spy a body slumped the corner, partially blocked from view by a male figure who appeared to be looking out the window with a handgun still raised in one arm.

"Simon Douglass, FBI." To his surprise the man didn't jump. "Put the gun down," Reid instructed. The man made no move to, instead just turned around slowly, and Reid realized it wasn't a man at all. It was a boy. A teenage boy. The boy stepped aside, and Reid realized the body in the corner was Simon Douglass. If that was Douglass, this had to be his son, Johnson.

"I saw the investigation on the news," Johnson said slowly. "Everyone's talkin' about it at school. Sayin' how horrible that guy must be. And then a few nights ago, I heard someone screamin' in the backyard. When I checked the next morning, I didn't find a person. Only a body. It was that woman who went missing last week. Same clothes and everythin'. And that's when I knew who was killin' them." The boy's eyes flickered towards his father, a gunshot wound in his chest. "Twenty-two people. That's when I knew what I had to do."

There was such contempt in that voice, and Reid tried to quickly put together what Garcia had mentioned about the man's son. He was sixteen. He was in high school, and he had been the counselor several times. When he was thirteen he was diagnosed with anxiety and depression following his mother's own mysterious death.

"Johnson," he said softly. "Johnson, I need you to put the gun down. What happened to you wasn't fair, and I want to help you, but I need you to put the gun down." He walked closer, holstering his own weapon in the hopes the boy would do the same. Only then did he realize what Johnson was watching. The window looked out over the front lawn, where the entire neighborhood seemed to be gathered, many of them shouting and yelling towards the house. They must have surmised what the police were there for, and with a sense of dread he saw two news vans pull up alongside the crowed. "Johnson," he repeated.

"I know happens to people who shoot someone," the teenager said mechanically. "They go to prison."

"That doesn't have to happen. You're sixteen, Johnson. You're just a kid. You - you can say you did what you did in self-defense. I'll tell them the same."

Johnson stared at him. "That's against the rules though, innit? You'd really do that? You don't even know me. You would risk your job, for _me_?" It didn't take much to imagine that Johnson Douglass had never had anybody offer to look out for him that way in all his fifteen years. At that moment though, Reid couldn't think straight. He could only hear those words, but they weren't the same ones Johnson had just spoken.

 _You would do that? You would kill yourself, for her?_

He inhaled sharply, his face paling, and it was in that split-second pause that the teenager glanced out the window again, shaking his head. "People already bully me at school. I don't fit in, and now everybody's going to know about this. Hell, they already know." Reid knew he needed to say something, but everything was coming up blank and he couldn't manage to get anything out. "They'll say I'm just like him. I can't face all those people anymore."

There were footsteps coming up the stairs, any second now Hotch and Alex and JJ were going to enter the room, and they would be able to fix this. But it took only two for Johnson to turn the raised gun to his temple, and in that instant the world seemed to tilt, splitting into two images.

On one, he saw Diane Turner pull the trigger as she and Maeve both fell to the ground.

On the other, he watched as the body of Johnson Douglass dropped just inches from his father.

They seemed to happen at the same time, interwoven through the very fabric of time itself, and he didn't even feel Hotch's hand on his shoulder or hear JJ calling his name. It was just the sound of ringing static in his ears as he struggled for air.

Reid was barely aware of his own body suddenly in autopilot mode, as he walked down the hall, down the stairs, and back out of the house. He sat in the SUV with his head against the window, not comprehending anything. Hotch exchanged a worried glance the rest of the team as they drove back to the airport. Once on the plane, he tried to sleep, hoping the act of closing his eyes would break the trance.

It only made things worse. Behind his eyelids were Tobias Hankel, Ryan Phillips, Owen Savage, Diane Turner. And Maeve. Always Maeve. He got no sleep on that flight back to Quantico. Even back home in his own bed, he couldn't sleep. The images wouldn't go away, and could swear he heard them now too.

He couldn't sleep, he couldn't manage to relax even a single muscle in his body. Every part of him was on edge, and it was impossible to concentrate or to think about anything clearly and rationally. Maeve, Diane, Tobias, Ryan, Haley, Maeve, Diane, Johnson, Owen, George, Maeve, Diane. Cycling over and over. Maeve. Diane. Maeve.

That was on Thursday. Reid called in sick on Friday, restless and exhausted. By Saturday he'd texted Bianca to tell her he was sick so she wouldn't come by. Sunday dawned and he still had no sleep and no relief to the horrors playing in his head on repeat. He was used to struggling for rest when he was having a migraine.

This was different, being kept awake by nightmares that weren't warded off in the daylight. Even that had happened before, bad dreams when he was just starting at the BAU and when Maeve had been killed. Somehow he'd managed to keep himself together then, and even after watching Peter Harper commit suicide, even after Strauss was killed by the Replicator. One person could only hold on for so long. He had lost his mind this time, he was sure of it. Four days in, a familiar name crept into the forefront of his hazy thoughts, a single word that would solve all of his problems.

It had been there when Gideon left, when he feared his father was the one who had killed Riley Jenkins, when he thought Emily was dead, and when Maeve had been killed. Especially then. He had considered dialing that number over three thousand times in those first two weeks. Three thousand and twelve, to be exact.

Even _then_ he had been thinking more clearly than he was now. A lack of sleep stole one's sanity. All his inhibitions had vanished with his sensibility, and the impulse came to him with no barriers to block it. Almost immediately he grabbed his messenger bag, and was already exiting the apartment building by the time his call was answered.

"Who's this?" The voice on the other line was raspy and rough, but he knew it instantly.

"Are you still at the same location?" Reid asked quickly.

"That depends, who's asking?"

Of course, business first. "I came to you seven years ago to buy something from you. I'd like to make another transaction." That was the key, the word all the customers used to identify themselves as regular clients, a safeguard against those looking only to snitch.

"Same place. Still cash only."

"I understand," he said, hurrying down the sidewalk.

* * *

In the weeks since they'd finally admitted what it was they felt, things had been slowly returning to normal. Bianca knew that life would never go back to the way they were before she left, for what Spencer had gone through had irreversibly changed him. You couldn't suffer a loss that big, one that stole a portion of your heart and yourself from you, and pretend it had never happened. It was possible, however, to heal. It was the art of _kintsugi_ , as the Japanese said.

Kana Mogami had explained the concepts to her, during their time working together in New York City. _Wabi-sabi_ was the philosophy that imperfection and unconventional things were made more beautiful by their cracks and flaws. Similarly, _kintsugi_ was both a philosophy and an art in the traditional sense. The word meant "golden joinery" or "golden repair" and the belief treated being broken as a part of life, an inevitable fact. Once broken, it was possible for an object to be repaired, wounds healing into scars. Those scars were supposed to be celebrated and not disguised or hidden.

When pottery was broken, it cracked and chipped and shattered. What was once whole was now in pieces, but those pieces could be put back together if one was patient. _Kintsukuroi_ was the artistic tradition of filling in the cracks with golden lacquer, making the object even more beautiful than before. People, like pottery, were fragile things. Filling in the broken places with something gold emphasized the imperfections, and illuminating them as a sign of strength and resilience.

It was in this way that their relationship began to mend as well, all of their scars golden and bright. She could see the man she knew coming back to her gradually. They walked through museums and traded stories about their two years apart. When he was having a bad day, the kind where endless waves of sorrow seemed to pummel him with every hour, he didn't hide away alone all day. Instead he called her, and they would spend time in one of their apartments, Bianca making tea and listening to him as he talked. If he needed to cry, she let him, and they had spent countless hours together like that; her arms around him, rubbing his back as he sobbed, the sort of bone-cleansing cry that washed the pain away.

Lately those days had been occurring farther and farther apart, and the number of good days was steadily increasing. Or at least, it had been. When the BAU had arrived back from Charleston, she had been ecstatic about the chance to finally meet his mother. The trip hadn't happened; instead he told her he was sick and stayed home all weekend. She was starting to worry something had happened, but on Tuesday he tried to make it up to her with a coffee shop date after work.

"I was starting to think you were never going to call back," she teased, sitting down next to him.

"I was busy," he said. "Sorry." He was unusually blunt.

"How was your day?" Bianca tried, wondering if there had been trouble at work.

"It was mostly paperwork. I don't really want to talk about it."

She waited for him to return the question, but he didn't. Their entire conversation seemed to be curt and one-sided, his answers no longer than absolutely necessary. There was no excited rambling or statistics to speak of. Bianca analyzed his expression, searching for the distant look in his eyes. Sure enough, he seemed far removed from the bench they were sharing, but something was off. They didn't look sad, the way they got when he was consumed with thoughts of Maeve. They almost looked uninterested. Bored. Rarely was Spencer Reid _bored._

All too soon he said he had to go, leaving her feeling more confused than ever. Concerned, she called JJ later that evening, asking if something had occurred at work to make him so troubled.

"It was probably Charleston," JJ answered, without hesitation.

"What happened in Charleston?" Bianca asked.

"It was a touchy situation. The unsub's victim count was climbing into the twenties range. Reid went with some of the others to guy's house to arrest him, but the unsub had a teenage son. When they got upstairs, the boy had killed his father after realizing what was happening. At that point all the neighbors were out front, and unable to face the shame of the situation, the boy committed suicide right there. I know Spence was disturbed by it. He hardly said a word the whole way home."

It made sense. He had watched Diane Turner kill herself and Maeve in front of him, and then he had to watch as a teenager died in the same way, unable to stop him. That would be triggering for anybody. Spencer had been through difficult and dark things before, but this time was different. He didn't want to talk about it; in fact he didn't seem to want to talk at all. He was easily irritated and constantly frustrated.

"What's going on with you?" Bianca asked him one day after he had snapped at her for tripping over the rug and knocking the chess set from the board. She scowled at him, waiting for him to explain the past few weeks.

"What's going on with me?" His voice carried even more of an edge than it had a minute ago. "What's going on with me is that after _years_ of being bullied, made fun of, and tortured, I finally had something good in my life, somebody I cared about, and she was _killed in front of me_. By a stalker that _I_ couldn't protect her from! I spent so much time feeling lonely, and the first person to make me happy, to care about me, died!"

Her scowl dropped to a frown, her bottom lip trembling. "I know you didn't mean that," she said quietly.

"Of course I meant it! You have no _idea_ how I felt about Maeve! You never even met her, so you don't get to tell me what I feel. Apparently asking for someone who loved me was too much to ask of the universe."

"So what about me? _I_ love you. Does that not matter anymore?"

He gave her a measured look, then crossed the room to his apartment door. "I think you should leave," he said with a huff.

"Good idea," she replied, running out before either of them could say something they would regret.

The next day he called her to apologize, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was up with him. They were fighting, and they _never_ fought. Disagreed, sure, even debated a few times, but never did they fight. And he was weirdly possessive of his messenger bag, constantly checking to make sure it was still there. When they went out somewhere, he usually excused himself to the restroom at least once. She was afraid to ask him what was wrong in case he pushed her even further away.

That was before the day she went over to confront him at his apartment. She had just reached the top of the stairs when he came running out the door. "Spencer?" His eyes went wide when he saw her standing there. "I thought I would come say hi," she told him.

"I'm sorry, but I have somewhere to go." He was talking that way again, his sentences coming out in haste as though he was always in a rush to get away from a discussion.

"Wait, can't we just talk?" Their conversations were becoming exasperating.

"I can't Bianca, not right now." In one practiced, fluid motion he slipped his cardigan on and started down the stairs. Typically she would've followed after him, but she found her feet rooted to the floor, paralyzed. She fought to steady herself long after he was gone, an image burned in her mind that made Bianca's blood run cold.

He had his sleeves rolled up just half an inch higher than normal. The millisecond before the wool obscured her view, they had been there, small but obvious. She knew the dull path of his scars, and this was a shift.

A tiny constellation of red dots in the crook of his elbow, connected by the blue line of a bruised vein.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **And so the plot thickens. I'm sorry. We're not out of the woods yet. But we're very very very close.**  
 **(I know, I know, _just_ when they were communicating properly again.) ****I promise not to be as cruel as the actual Criminal Minds writers!  
**

 **Speaking of which, a huge thank you to all of you who continue to read this story. It means so very much to me - I still can't believe there's so many of you following and reading this! Thanks to caitlincarnell, LadySnowTheStark, and loveslatin13 for favoriting and/or following the story!  
**

 **And wow am I ever grateful to those of who you write such lovely reviews! Thanks to ahowell1993, SabinaD** (your review literally made my day! I apologize for stealing your sleep, haha! And I sincerely hope you haven't given up on me after this chapter) **, Dark-Enough-Conspiracy-Theory, spurofthemoment24** (um so yes, that sunset... it is coming. There's just a bit more waltzing yet to be done, as I'm sure you've deduced at this point), **g** (YO TO YOU TOO! Haha, I'm so glad someone else caught that! I do harbor quite a dislike for Jefferson, and with all the Hamilton buzz - I would sell my right arm to see it live - I couldn't resist!), **Crazyabouthim** (Thank you so so much! It really means a lot, and I'm glad you've enjoyed it!), **Love-Fiction-** **2016** (ah, you've changed your screen name!), **and ripon** (I'm feeling super guilty about going from relief to more problems in a single chapter) **and** **G** **money** (I'm assuming this is g, but I'm still glad you enjoyed that Hamilton reference. Bless _you_ ) **,** **for taking the time to leave a review! Any feedback from you all is always so much appreciated! I'm always happy to hear from you.  
**


	20. 20) The Ninth Step

His mind was wrapped in a fog. For most people, it had to be disorienting, but Reid, he enjoyed the sensation. It made him feel normal. The connections he made so easily now came sluggishly, and strings of numbers no longer added themselves up effortlessly. It was a comforting numbness. Normal. All he had _ever_ wanted was to just be normal.

A normal person with a normal job and a normal life.

Normal people got to be happy. The people he worked with were evidence of that. JJ didn't have a PhD, she had a husband and a son and a house. He wasn't the only person with a deceased loved one, or personal problems, but he _was_ the only person on the team with an institutionalized parent or a drug addiction.

And the only one with a drug relapse. Though that one, he supposed, was partially his fault. It wasn't his choice to become an addict, but it had definitely been his choice to call the dealer. Addiction was a powerful thing, he knew that - just like he knew it would have been easy to talk to Hotch or to go to a Beltway Clean Cops meeting after Charleston. If he had called Bianca, she would've listened to him.

Instead he called a drug dealer, and left the street corner with a fresh syringe and three vials of Dilaudid.

It took a great effort to maintain some level of professionalism at work, an act he supplemented with great patience and regular hits. If Hotch suspected something was up, he would be in trouble, but his recent personal loss – and Hotch's already packed workload - had given him a greater amount of leeway. They all chalked his neurotic behavior up to grief and guilt, which wasn't exactly wrong. It was just that those feelings were magnified by his drug use.

But then again, it wouldn't have been the first time they overlooked him. When he first started using, they tiptoed around him and pretended what they saw was mere irritability, and nobody confronted him. Two of _his_ team members went to go talk to Strauss about getting help, though. And she still kept her job. When Haley died, they all stood by Hotch. When Strauss died, they all went to her funeral, and everyone made a toast to Erin. Naturally, Maeve's death didn't warrant quite the same response. Just because he avoided the topic in conversation, didn't mean he wasn't hoping one of them would ask how he was doing. They were profilers, for god's sake.

Reid still had a tolerance built up from years ago, and he found himself increasing his doses in order to keep the high from crashing down. The haze never completely erased the nightmares or the pain of losing Maeve, but he was grateful for an escape. It sure as hell beat dealing with the constant sting of an old wound. Every high left him craving another. After so many cycles of rising and crashing and craving and repeating, even the side effects were familiar; strange dreams, hallucinations, weight loss.

He wasn't sure if Bianca had noticed, but every now and then he thought he caught her looking at him funny. He didn't pay enough attention to confirm the fact. When he was around her, he finally let his guard down, the effort of doing his job catching up with him. More often than not he found himself annoyed or agitated, and he would snap at her for no reason. He regretted it, always enough to try and make it up to her, but never enough to stop and explain it to her.

It was half distraction, half shame. Sometimes Reid caught himself mumbling his thoughts out loud, and he would struggle to remember exactly what he had left unspoken. Those thoughts were usually tuned towards those he had wronged. Apologies he needed to make to victims and to unsubs alike. _Step nine,_ he thought bitterly. _Make amends._ The 12 steps were supposed to be done in sobriety, but when had anything in his life ever gone according to plan? The person he made the most amends to was Maeve. He should have taken care of her, should have protected her.

He should have been the one to die, not her.

When he wasn't distracted he was embarrassed. Reid knew he didn't have to face each day alone, that Bianca had always accepted him, but _he_ couldn't even stand himself at that point. One person could only deal with so much. After breaking her heart, cutting her out of his life, she had still come back to support him in his grief. What would happen if she found out he was using again?

He couldn't lose someone else, and certainly not Bianca _again._

How was he even supposed to tell her? _Hey, thanks for dealing with me but I chose Dilaudid over talking to you. Much less work, and faster too. Can you help me for the thousandth time?_

Would she even understand? If by some miracle she wasn't angry with him, she would certainly be upset. The thought of her reaction was unbearable. How many times would he make her cry?

Not this time.

If he was going to be lost, he would do so alone. Last time, reaching out to Gideon had helped. But Gideon was gone now too, and there had been an understanding that _last_ time was going to be the _only_ time. What a lie that had turned out to be.

One Friday he left work early, his paperwork complete and his patience draining quickly. He didn't even notice the worried glances that followed him out, his mind was too preoccupied with ghosts and guilt and grief.

According to the 12 steps, the only way to restore his sanity was accepting a Higher Power. If there was a God, he wouldn't have let Maeve Donovan die. _I don't believe in a God who makes bad things happen_. Bianca's voice echoed through his memories, and Reid knew there was something else she had said that was supposed to follow that sentence, but he was having a hard time recalling exactly what it had been.

A "Higher Power" wasn't the only thing capable of restoring his sanity. True, the other way was temporary, but it worked nonetheless. As afternoon turned to evening, he jogged home from the metro station, towards the obvious solution.

* * *

When Morgan stepped out of his office, the first thing he saw was Bianca Brown sitting at a desk, her hands clasped together and shaking.

"Is Hotch here?" she asked, standing from the chair.

"No, he's gone home for the day. Is there something you need?" Morgan raised his eyebrows. It was getting late, and the building was almost entirely empty. Hotch had finally packed up, taking a stack of paperwork with him so he could get home to Jack.

"I just…" she hesitated, teetering on the edge of truth, debating whether to cross the line. "I didn't know where else to go."

Morgan didn't like the sense of dread settling in the pit of his stomach. "What's wrong, B?"

"It's Spencer. Morgan, something's wrong with him. He hasn't been himself lately, I'm sure you've noticed." There was no denying that. "It just keeps getting worse. Sometimes I hear him talking to himself. Apologizing to someone. He's sorry he couldn't help them, he couldn't save them. Sorry he had to hurt them. He, um… he mentions Maeve a lot. Says he wishes he could have taken her place."

"He's probably just having nightmares. There are things he's seen that aren't easy but we've all dealt with that at one point or another. It's part of the job." While that was true, Derek also knew that the past year had been harder than any the BAU had previously experienced. Every year, there was always something. Team members were hurt and killed and sometimes they even left the Bureau altogether. This year had been hard on all of them. First there was JJ nearly losing Will, followed by Emily leaving for London. Reid lost Maeve, Rossi lost Strauss, and the Replicator had terrorized all of them for months.

Bianca bit her lip, trying to find the words she needed and the courage to speak them. "That's not all though. I mean, the apologies, the nightmares, those worry me. They've been going on for weeks. But Morgan… I know about… I mean he told me, and you know, right?"

Morgan crossed his arms, as though he could brace himself for what he knew would follow. There were only a handful of things about Reid that would set that girl on edge, that would make her this scared. Even fewer still that would bring her to the office at this hour, looking for Hotch. But she couldn't mean… could she?

"I've seen them just briefly, for a second. When he didn't think I was looking. There are more of them on this arm. And he's been watching his bag so carefully, double checking it before I leave…" Her voice broke as she said, "I think he's using again, Morgan. I'm so scared."

Morgan exhaled, the sense of foreboding heavy on his shoulders . He didn't want to have to consider it possible, but ever since Charleston, Reid hadn't been himself. Something was off, the same way something had been off years ago. Despite his hope that if he pretended not to notice, it would go away, he couldn't deny her fear was rational. Bianca asked if he would go with her to talk to Reid. Since she'd arrived by way of the metro, he offered to drive her back to DC in order to save time. They rode across the Potomac in silence, other than the few seconds it took for him to call Hotch and leave a message, telling him it was urgent. Their youngest agent was intensely private, but this wasn't something he could solve on his own. Whatever ill-will his friend might feel towards him for notifying their boss, Derek would face if it meant getting Reid the help he needed.

It didn't take long to arrive, but before he could turn off the ignition, Bianca was already out of the car, racing up the walk to the apartment building. "Something's wrong."

"What's going on?" he asked, jogging to catch up with her.

She whirled around, her eyes wide. "His windows are dark. He doesn't go to bed this early, and he always leaves the lights on until then because-"

"He's afraid of the dark," Morgan finished, remembering what Reid had shared with him once. "Dammit." He pulled his phone from his back pocket, clutching it in his hand as he followed her inside and up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs she knocked on his door, but there was no answer, though turning the knob revealed it was unlocked. "Will you wait here?" she pleaded, and the fear in her voice persuaded him to stand guard just outside the door of apartment 23 in case she needed backup. She flicked on the lights, and he held his breath waiting.

Still no reply from Hotch. What was he supposed to say to Reid, if he was using again? Would he be able to convince him to get help? Reid was like family to him, like a brother. A younger brother that he was supposed to protect. He hadn't known what to say to the kid the first time around, what was he supposed to do now? The answer to his questions came in the sound of a wail from inside the apartment.

"Bianca?" he shouted, starting through the open door.

"Call someone!" she shrieked. "Call someone please!" He dialed the emergency number and shouted for an ambulance as he hurried towards her voice.

Bianca was hunched over the sofa, a strangled sob leaving her throat. "Spencer!" she cried. "Spencer _please_. Please, wake up. Spencer please, don't leave me, wake up, please!" Morgan rushed over to her. Reid was unconscious, his face pale and his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. A syringe and two bottles of Dilaudid were on the coffee table. It was a strange juxtaposition to the textbooks nearby, things that belonged there and things that didn't. Reaching for his neck, Morgan could still feel a pulse, but it was slow and faint, his breathing shallow.

"I called for help, they're coming," he assured Bianca. "They're coming. Hang in there kid, come on," he whispered to Reid. _Don't do this to us. Don't do this to her. Don't you leave this way._

* * *

The whole team was gathered outside the window of his hospital room.

"There was a high level of Dilaudid in his system," the doctor explained. "He overdosed, but we think he's going to pull through. He's very lucky. He should be waking up soon."

"Thank you, doctor," Hotch said. As the man in the white coat walked away, the unit chief turned to Bianca, the only outsider among the huddle of profilers. "You should be in there when he wakes up. He'll want you." But she shook her head.

"I can't," she whispered. Nearly everyone's eyebrows knit together - in confusion, indignation? But Hotch just stood, waiting for her to explain. "This is my fault," she told him. "I should've known. I should've said something sooner, but I was so scared. I thought he would be able to talk to me, but he didn't feel like he could. I should've been there for him." Her eyes were starting to water. It wasn't fury that held her back, but remorse; doubt.

"It's not your fault," Morgan cut in, gently. "Bianca, look. You couldn't have known for sure what was going on, and you didn't want to hurt him. But it's not your fault. And Reid, he's not going to be mad at you. You two are a lot alike sometimes. If you blame yourself for this, who do you think he blames?" Bianca looked up at him, bewildered. "You really should be in there."

So she went inside, sitting down in a hard chair at his side, and waited for him to come to. The person she loved most was unconscious in a hospital bed, electrodes hooked up to his chest, an IV in his arm, and a thin blanket covering his legs. Everything about this situation felt wrong, and she desperately wanted there to be something she could do to make it better. Had the other members of the unit not been standing outside, she would've considered holding his hand, or trying to find something to read to him. As it was she hardly had the strength to do anything but push back the fear she felt. Almost thirty minutes passed before finally, there was a flicker of movement across his eyelids.

"Spencer?" she asked. He frowned, shifted, and opened his eyes ever so slowly, blinking in the light. "Spencer, do you know where you are?" He turned to her, groggy and confused. "You - you're in a hospital," she told him.

His eyes widened, and he glanced around quickly - at the dull walls, the unfamiliar surroundings, the beeping monitor, the needle in his arm… the needle. In his arm. His eyes flew downward, unable to look at her. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Now that he was awake, she was startled to find a piece of resentment was lodged in her throat, pushing back the terror and guilt residing there moments ago. "They said you overdosed. You nearly died." He still couldn't look at her, and that small bit of acrimony escaped. "What the _hell_ where you _thinking_?"

"That case in Charleston, it was so similar to Maeve's. It triggered something, and all of these old cases came rushing back. And I just couldn't make it stop, the remembering. I couldn't get rid of it. Every flashback was like being trapped in the past and forced to relive it all," he told her, shuddering. Persistent nightmares made for a living hell, and for him all the monsters were incredibly real. With that confession, the bitterness subsided, replaced with compassion. There wasn't an excuse for his behavior, but that was a damn good reason.

"Why didn't you tell me you were struggling again?"

After years of silence stretched between them, he spoke. "I was so ashamed," he said. "I was so scared of hurting you or upsetting you again. I felt angry and I felt guilty and I didn't know what to do, and everything just kept getting worse. I was afraid you wouldn't understand and I just… I'm sorry. I didn't want to lose you. But if you don't want to stay… I'll understand." The words came out slowly, as through traveling through molasses, as though the weight of his shame wouldn't let them out.

It struck her that he hadn't been hiding his habit because he didn't trust her, but because he didn't want her to be hurt by the truth. Sitting there in that bed, he looked utterly miserable, and she wrestled with feeling angry at him and feeling sorry for him. It would be so easy to yell, to weigh the score of past wrongs and rights. How many times had he helped her, and how many times had she helped him? It wasn't fair though, to keep record like that. Humans made mistakes, and relationships weren't about winning. They were about learning, and about loving, and about grace; about knowing what the person you loved needed. More than anything right now, he needed to know that she was still capable of forgiving him.

Her heart ached for him, and she put her hand next to his. "Spencer," she said, as softly as she could. "You are the man I love. Every day, you put others before yourself in order to save lives. You see so much darkness, and you still have so much kindness and warmth and generosity. You give so much of yourself away. And you went through so much alone to try to protect me from this. You didn't want me to get hurt. I could _never_ be ashamed of you. I love you."

And finally his eyes found hers for just a brief second, before his face crumpled and he began to cry. That was all it took for the tears she'd been fighting back all that time to come in rivers, rushing down her cheeks. His arms reached for her tentatively, as though he was afraid to touch her only to have her vanish. But she reached for him like a life raft, needing him, needing to confirm with her hands as well as her eyes that he was still alive. He held her so close she could feel his heartbeat.

In the hallway, Garcia wiped away a stray tear of her own. "I want that," she said. Morgan smiled beside her.

"Can you imagine?" JJ was asking. "Those two? After everything they've gone through, and they're still together."

Alex shook her head. "All of us have had hard battles to fight. But Reid's faced more than most. I'm just glad he has her." She didn't know much about the young woman embracing her colleague, but the events of the past year left Blake wanting to know Spencer didn't have to face the world alone. That he could find someone who made him happy.

The team looked on, wondering what words had transpired between the couple. Inside, Reid pulled her up beside him on the hospital bed, and it looked as though she would never be ready to let him go. Hotch turned to Rossi with just a hint of a smile, and the two agreed it would be best to come back later.

What they had to say could wait a little while longer.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Like I said, I promise not to be as cruel as the actual CM writers. All are still alive and - mostly - well.  
Thank you thank you thank you for putting up with me! After all this angst, I promise there's going to be some much needed fluff.**

 **I'm so grateful to track98, LilyHiddleston96, BringOnTheWonder1997, ForeverPINKSky14, hadrianlopez1, Evanescencefan97, and lovelygiselle123 for following and/or favoriting this story!**

 **To my wonderful reviewers, ahowell1993** (ah, I know I'm sorry! Roughly 80% of heroin addicts relapse at some point, and I think that if Emily's death was enough to nearly cause that, Maeve's death certainly would. In this chapter and the coming chapters, you'll hopefully see a little more into his thought process), **SabinaD** (you're literally so sweet! I don't have much elsewhere, but you can find me on tumblr as _**brywrites**_ where I'm posting poetry and such a little more), **ripon** (very much in love. And he loves her, but he's also got some things to work through. I think they're both trying to protect the other in their own way), **spurofthemoment24** (thank _you_! Kintsukuroi is such a fascinating concept, and I love the idea of people making each other golden again), **hfcmfan2013, and Love-Fiction-2016** (:O indeed!), **and dianakotori** (you're so kind! I'm glad you think so!) **:** **you all are the best. Thank you so very much for taking the time to leave me feedback and for continuing to read this story!  
I love hearing from you all, even if it's just a simple message.  
**


	21. 21) No Matter the Wreckage

Early that morning, Bianca woke in a slight state of panic, forgetting where she was and how she got there. But the warmth emanating from the body next to her, the strong arms wrapped around her, brought back the memories of the previous night. She opened her eyes slowly to see Reid, sleeping so peacefully. He could've died, and she suspected that they would be working through some of his most persistent demons for the next few weeks. They'd done it before, chasing down the monsters haunting each other's pasts. All that mattered was that he was still here, he was still alive, and they were still together. She moved a little closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. He sighed ever so softly, stirring to consciousness beside her.

"Good morning," she said. He looked down at her with a small smile, analyzing the situation; the way he held her, how close she was to him, the quiet beeping of a heart monitor nearby.

"Morning," he replied. "Is everything okay?"

Bianca nodded. "I'm fine. How are you feeling though?"

"My head hurts a little, and my thoughts feel sort of slow and muddled… but you're here," he added.

"And I'm not going anywhere. Unless you want me to?"

Despite the weariness still plain on his face, his gaze was steady, certain. "Course not. Why would you think that?"

The echo of quiet mumblings, apologies muttered to other people, still played in her head; a tape of things she would rather forget. "I know there's still a lot you're working through after Maeve. And I just wonder if I made things worse by rushing into things with you." After all, she'd spoken first that day in the park. Perhaps those sentiments should have remained silent.

There were troubles he still had to battle, and the only person capable of knowing when he was ready to move forward was Reid himself. Things had been jumbled between them in the last few months, the last thing she wanted to do was make them more so. "You're right to say that I'm still figuring things out," he mused. "But I don't need to figure out how I feel about you. I told you I loved you, and despite the things I might have said while high, I still do."

It took little effort to return his tired smile. Keeping one hand pressed close against his chest, her other traced up his torso, across his jaw, following the path from cheek to ear, and brushing her fingers through his hair. She wanted to be closer to him. Closer, closer, closer, enough to keep the nightmares at bay, to keep him safe. The sudden knock on the door made them both jump, startling them back into the world. Hotch and Rossi were stepping into the room as Bianca frantically scrambled off of the hospital bed, smoothing down her clothes which were still wrinkled from the night before. Hotch cleared his throat, as the Reid looked up at them sheepishly.

"I trust you slept well," Rossi said with a smirk.

"If you need to talk, I can go," said Bianca, hurriedly grabbing her things and making a start for the door. Her face was bright red, and embarrassed by unforeseen intrusion she was looking for a quick escape from the situation.

"That won't be necessary," Hotch insisted. "You're more than welcome to stay here while we speak with Reid." Still blushing, she sat back down in the chair by Reid's bed.

She could tell he was uneasy. When he'd gotten clean before, he'd done so on his own, with some help from Gideon. As far as she was aware, the Bureau didn't know of Reid's addiction. She also knew that the BAU meant more than anything to him. They were his family, his home; more so than anyone else was. He would never intentionally risk his job, not if it was anything he was able to control. Bianca's heart beat rapidly, as both she and Spencer waited for someone to speak.

It was Hotch who finally did. "Reid, this isn't the first time we've dealt with this issue. You and I both know the Bureau's policies, and the consequences for something of this nature." Reid nodded, shame evident on his face. "You've abused a substance - a narcotic drug, at that. Under normal circumstances, you would be fired, and could possibly face criminal charges. Not to mention the effect this would have on cases you worked while using. However-"

Reid's head had lifted at the words "normal circumstances" and he was now watching Hotch attentively, trying to read whatever expression might be visible in the stone-straight face of his fellow agent.

"I think we can agree that these aren't normal circumstances," Hotch continued. "Your addiction wasn't by choice. You kidnapped and tortured by a delusional killer, and you told Gideon willingly. You maintained your sobriety for a long period of time, and through several incredibly difficult situations. I believe that this recent relapse was a result of a number of stressors piling up, and triggered by what happened in Charleston last month. Otherwise, you wouldn't have been using, and you certainly would have thought to ask for help. Am I correct in that assumption?" Spencer nodded once more. "Good. Then I'll expect this to be the last time. You'll be clean when you return to the office in two weeks."

"When I… when I return?" Spencer asked. He sounded as though he was afraid to hope, afraid to believe that things could possibly turn out well.

"Yes, in two weeks." Hotch told him. "That should be plenty of time for you to get clean, and get help."

"But I thought you said that the policies-"

"I said those were the policies under normal circumstances. And as I just reminded you, your circumstances have been anything but normal. Given the unique situation, we've decided that's merit enough to let you stay."

"In short, the Bureau owes him a big favor, and he's cashing in," Rossi added. "It also helps that he's the one filing all the paperwork for now."

Spencer was just staring, wordless, mouth open, his eyes flickering between Hotch and Rossi, processing what he was hearing. Tears were already welling up in eyes as he asked, his voice cracking, "You mean… I get to stay with the BAU?"

Hotch gave a short nod of affirmation. "Reid, listen to me. You're a smart kid. You know that. Your intelligence is always going to be an asset to this unit, and to this organization. But beyond your head is your heart. And your heart is what allows to you to understand and empathize with the people we deal with. It's easy to forget that you need help with sorting out those emotions sometimes. We assume you're smart enough to handle them yourself, but I mean it when I say you belong on this team, and you belong in this family. We need you. So the next time you think that you're in danger of using again, you come to us. We're here for you. Do you understand?"

The unit chief spoke earnestly, and the effect was not lost on Reid, who swallowed hard, and nodded, a hesitant smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "Thank you," he said hoarsely.

Beside him, Bianca stood from her chair and rushed towards the agents, her arms wrapping around Hotch, and then Rossi, in a hug. "Thank you both," she repeated. They regarded her, Hotch caught off guard, and Rossi with a smile.

"You're welcome," the older agent said. "Well, I think we'll leave you two alone, then. We can discuss the details later." Rossi winked and flashed Spencer another grin, and they parted ways, promising they would return later with the rest of the team.

Spencer sniffed, drying his eyes with the heels of his hands. Bianca touched his arm lightly. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied. "Yeah, I guess I just need some time to process it all. I didn't think I would get to stay. I had kind of convinced myself to accept what I was so sure was coming. And when it didn't… I guess 'relief' doesn't even begin to describe it. Without them, without the BAU, I don't know what I would do."

"I know."

"I can't believe I risked all of that…"

"Spencer, the things you're dealing with - the things you've _dealt_ with - aren't easy. With everything that's happened to you in the last year…" An unspoken litany of events resided in that pause. Maeve, Strauss, the Replicator. "And if you hadn't been tortured by that man, I don't think you would've ever turned to drugs. You didn't choose that. And once you're addicted, well, it's something you have to battle with every day."

She looked up at him, two pairs of brown eyes focused on each other. "But you don't have to fight that battle alone, either. Hotch is right - your team sees what you see, and they want to be there for you. They care about you. And I care about you. I care about you so much, Spencer. I'm sorry if I wasn't there for you. I was just so afraid of… of…" Her voice shook, and she took a shaky breath of air, water creeping into her eyes as she replayed the image of him unconscious on the couch.

His hand cupped her cheek. "Bianca, this isn't your fault. I didn't want you to know. But every day, you help me. You listen to me, and you accept me and you make those heavy things a little bit lighter. I don't ever want to lose my team. But I don't want to lose you either." That had happened once before already, he wasn't about to go through it again.

"Like I said, I'm not going anywhere. I love you. And I promise, I'm going to be there for you. I'm going to speak up when I'm afraid. I want to work through our fears together. I don't want you to ever feel like you're alone."

Spencer moved his long fingers to lace them through hers. "And I promise to let you be there. To talk to the team, and to talk to you. And to learn to ask for help. I don't want to make you feel lonely," he responded, his words an echo of her own. They were holding hands, Bianca standing beside the bed, both wearing the sort of smiles that can only be worn by those who have come so close to losing so much, only to find that they haven't; that somehow they have survived the wreckage of the night and are standing in the wake of the morning.

Bianca looked at him, the hint of a laugh escaping her lips. He raised his eyebrows in question. "Nothing," she answered. "I was just thinking that this is probably one of the few times I'll be on eye level with you." Whether the thought came from exhaustion or a desire to lighten the mood, she wasn't certain. His low chuckle told her that all was well, and in that sound a thank you was buried - _thank you for staying, thank you for believing in me, and thank you for continuing to find ways to make me smile_.

He patted the space on the bed beside him which she had vacated minutes earlier. "Come closer then," Spencer told her. Bianca climbed back up beside him, careful to avoid the IV tubing, the bag swinging from a pole on the other side of the bed. She ran her hand through long, wavy hair. He reached up to brush her bangs from her forehead, and she could feel his fingers move over her ear before venturing across the top of her neck at the edges of her pixie cut. She leaned towards him slowly, and he lifted his head to meet her in a kiss that began with just a grazing of lips before deepening, long and soft and slow.

It had been far too long since she had kissed him.

When they finally pulled apart, Bianca rested her head back on Spencer's chest. Her fingers drifted up towards his collarbone, kneading circles near the edge of his hospital gown. For a moment, she took it all in - the steady rise and fall of his chest, breathing as he should be; the warmth of his arms around her; the way his hands rested on her hip and on the top of her head; the two of them lying there together. So much of the anxiety that had been building up inside of her over the past weeks was evaporating, with only the beeping of the monitors to remind her that they were in a hospital room.

"How long do we stay like this?" she whispered, almost dreamily.

Spencer's response tickled her forehead with each word, his breath warm. "Hospitals typically have nurses check vitals every four hours on average. I was half-awake when they checked earlier this morning around 7:02, and it's… 9:46 right now, which gives us roughly an hour and sixteen minutes, provided no doctors stop by before then." An hour and sixteen minutes without words or worries, spent simply in each other's company. Seventy-six minutes of calm, of reassurance that things would turn out okay for the both of them.

* * *

Between rounds of nurses and doctors they talked about his relapse, about Maeve and the deal in the loft, about Charleston and Johnson Douglass. There were things to be explained and things that needed to be both said and heard. Around noon, there was a knock on the door. Bianca let in the parade of agents, delighted at the way a grin changed Spencer's face entirely the moment he saw them.

"Hey there, pretty boy," Morgan greeted him. "Good to see you awake again."

"How are you feeling, Reid?" Blake asked.

"Better," he replied. "Much better, thank you." It was a flurry of questions, answers, and well-wishes as the entire BAU team flooded into the small room. JJ had brought flowers and a small stuffed bear wearing glasses- "Henry picked it out," she told him - and Garcia was holding an array of brightly colored balloons.

"I had to bring something to make my favorite genius feel better!" the analyst said, tying them around the bed rail. "Are they being nice to you? Did they give you Jell-O?"

Reid shook his head. "I actually haven't eaten anything yet. But if they bring something, make sure Morgan doesn't get to it first this time." He turned towards his colleague with a weak smile, and Derek laughed.

"Guilty as charged."

Bianca sat cross-legged in the chair, listening to them exchange stories and jokes. There were plenty of sincere offers of support and love, and it seemed to give Reid more energy the longer they stayed. Alex in particular fretted over him the same way a mother might, and she figured that Spencer and Agent Blake were closer than she thought, the two being so similar in their personalities and interests. Bianca joined the conversation where she could, and answered questions when asked, but she was more than happy to just let the team be a family for a few hours with no cases to worry about. That didn't happen often enough.

"Hey," Morgan said at one point. "Kid, I hope you know how much that woman of yours cares about you." He jerked his head towards Bianca, who blushed. "She came all the way to Quantico to get me, she was so worried about you. Now she's gonna act all humble, but that took a lotta courage and a lotta love. So don't you ever scare her – or us – like that again, you hear me?" He aimed an uncharacteristically stern look at Reid, who nodded apologetically.

"Good. Otherwise I'm gonna do a lot worse than giving your name and number out to the press on our next case." Bianca made a mental note to ask for that story later.

Eventually a doctor came to shoo them out, a chorus of "feel betters" and "see you soon." Bianca remained behind with Spencer, while his paperwork was processed.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, when she noticed he was staring at her.

"I'm still waiting for you to yell at me," said Spencer. With the sheer astonishment of the overdose wearing off, the gratitude at having survived, he was beginning to feel unsettled. It all seemed too good to be true, that he could live, that he could keep his job, that he could still have her by his side.

It was the logical thing for her to do, now that it was clear he wasn't dying. "Alright, fine. I'm terribly angry with you. You're a horrible person, and I hate you, and I never want to see you again." Though the words lacked any conviction, he still frowned, clearly surprised. "Is that what you want me to say? I'm upset, yes. But I'm upset because I nearly lost you, and because you weren't honest with me. Few addicts go without a single relapse, you know."

His fingers tugged at the flimsy hospital bracelet around his wrist. "I just feel like I keep burdening you with everything, and you're rarely angry with me. Why?"

It would have been surprisingly easy for her vexation to turn into screaming last night, and she was surprised he hadn't noticed how hard she had to fight to keep all of her emotions in check. It was all she offered for a second, letting a small piece of the past sink in. "You're not the only one to have struggled with something. The summer after my first year in grad school, I had a really bad relapse with my eating disorder. I ended up passing out at my job. It took me a few months to get back to eating normally again. Everything was so stressful, living in a new place, being on my own, and trying to figure out what I was doing with my life. All these people kept telling me that I just needed to eat, that I just needed to believe that I wasn't fat or ugly and everything would be fixed. But it was never about the food. It was about being in control. Just like this isn't about the drugs. It's about what happened to you."

She hated to dwell on that story, having to stare down pieces of her life she would rather leave behind, but she wanted him to know she understood the feeling of spiraling down in an attempt to escape what scared you. "Besides, I grew up in a house full of people who were always angry. It never seemed to fix anything." For a brief moment, the softness left her face as she added, "But make no mistake – if this happens again, if you hide something like this from me, I'll be furious. So don't you ever throw everything away like that. If you risk your life, and hurt the people in it again, I won't be able to forgive you so easily."

The message, he said, was absolutely understood. The discharge papers were filed, and Spencer was given a list of clinics and specialists that provided addiction programs. He changed into the fresh clothes Morgan had brought over from his apartment, and he and Bianca left the hospital hand in hand.

* * *

 _"To err is human; to forgive, is divine." – Alexander Pope_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **It's strange to think that I've published 21 chapters of this story so far. Thank you for taking the time to read it! I'm especially grateful to ajwehri, dianakotori, perfectlyhorriddarling, curlystruggle, Dream-4-3v3r, Blondie24-7, blushingpixie, and Shy-DayDreamer143 for following and/or favoriting this fic!  
**

 **To my dear reviewers: ahowell1993** (I had to laugh when you suggested Hotch give him two weeks off, because that's what I'd already written! Crazy, isn't it?) **, ripon, LadySnowTheStark** (it's only a bit of happiness for now, but just you wait until I get these next few chapters posted. I think you'll be pleased), **smilin steph, Dark-Enough-Conspiracy-Theory** (somewhat of a reconciliation, but a bit more here, and much more in the coming chapters. The focus is primarily on strengthening their relationship once more), **SabinaD** (you make me wanna cry with how sweet your reviews are! Thank you! And haha, I was worried he would come off as abrasive lately, so it's good to hear that!), **dianakotori** (hopefully I can satisfy those withdrawals with a few chapters _about_ withdrawals!), **and** **hfcmfan2013** (thank you! I think you'll really enjoy the coming chapters in that case), **thank you so very much for sending me messages and leaving me feedback! Each of you seriously makes my day, and I love hearing from you. You're the best! And yes, I certainly owe you for the considerable about of angst in the last nine or so chapters.**

 **And so it's out of the hospital, and onto the recovery. And of course, it's not recommended to go through detox alone...**


	22. 22) Footsteps Away

_"Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love." – Mother Teresa_

* * *

On they way back, she asked him to explain everything to her, and he obliged, telling her about Charleston in detail, and how he'd lost his mind after watching Johnson Douglass kill himself. With every sentence, things clicked into place as their interactions made sense, the distance and the arguments now placed in a proper context. It was difficult to listen to how just how many times he'd used since first calling the dealer. By the time they reached his apartment, he was telling her about the things that went through his head with every hit. It chilled her, to picture him so devastatingly empty, and so willfully removed from the world.

They sat at the small kitchen table, a cup of coffee in his hands, and a mug full of hot tea in hers. "So what are you going to do about getting clean?" she asked him.

"I want to detox here. I know that won't be easy, but I've done it once before. After that, I guess I'll think about seeing a therapist maybe? I'd need someone who works with psychologists or something, so I can't just profile my way through it. And I think it might help if I start attending NA meetings again." He swirled his coffee around in his cup, peering into it as though it held the solution.

"I want to stay with you then, while you're detoxing," Bianca declared. That was enough to draw his eyes away from the coffee.

"You don't have to do that B," he said quickly. "I can get someone from my team to come over. I don't want to put you through that." The way he said it made it clear he felt he had put her through too much already. What would it take for him to realize that her love for him wouldn't be scared away? He'd loved her that way, not judging her, not balking upon meeting her family, even trying to bring her into his own.

"And what if they get called away on a case?" she countered. "I don't want to leave you here alone. Spencer, I looked it up. Going cold turkey on Dilaudid can be dangerous. Withdrawal only lasts about a week and I know it's not going to be easy, but that's exactly why I want to be with you. You're going to need help. And I'd feel much better knowing that you're okay. I promised, remember?"

He gave in. Arrangements were easily made, as she had class only twice a week over the summer break. It was easy enough to explain to her professor that there was a family emergency, and to find someone to get her a copy of the notes. Taking his car keys, she drove across the city to collect her things and to prepare for the week ahead. She wanted to be with him as much as possible.

From her own apartment, she threw some clothes into a duffel bag, along with a couple pillows and a blanket. At the library, she checked out a small stack of books to share between them, and some old movies. Her last stop before returning back to Reid was the grocery store. They'd gone shopping together a handful of times, so Bianca had an idea of what to buy, taking care to purchase things like saltine crackers, Gatorade, and soda. The pharmacy had a few prescriptions she picked up for him, including anti-nausea and sleep aids; and then she was on her way back.

It took her nearly three trips to bring everything inside, but she insisted on Reid resting - "I'm still amazed that someone your size can carry so much," he teased her. "I'm very efficient," she replied - and they unpacked everything together, putting groceries in the fridge and organizing medications on the counter.

"So what else do I need to know?" Bianca asked, sitting down on the couch. "I mean, Google told me the basics, but you've been through it once before. You know what to expect."

Spencer considered this for a moment, pulling memories from the past and into the present. "The first 24 hours is typically when the mental craving is most intense. After that, the physiological symptoms start to set in. Sweating, restlessness, loss of appetite, severe nausea. Last time, it was the second day that was the hardest. I'll probably be sick all night, and most of the following day. From there, the real problem becomes sleep. The insomnia can be so bad that some addicts turn to benzodiazepines or Xanax, but I'm not exactly partial to that. It'll be difficult to keep anything down, and I'll be lucky to get an hour of sleep per night. Between the headaches, the lack of rest, and the near constant nausea, it'll be a rough week."

"Are you nervous?"

"I don't know if nervous is the word. I think I'm more anxious to get it over with."

Together they got rid of the rest of his Dilaudid supply. They had dinner – as bland as possible - and Bianca set up camp on his couch.

"Are you sure you want to sleep out here?" Spencer asked her once again.

"Positive," she replied, spreading the blankets over the cushions. "You're going to need rest more than me. Besides, I'm smaller than you. There's no way sleeping on this couch can be that comfortable for you." He relented, and finally retired to his room. She pulled the blankets up to her chin, settling in for the night. Bianca knew that they were both exhausted from the chaos of the previous evening. Still, there was a part of her that was glad to be so close to him, sleeping only footsteps away.

* * *

Blinking awake, Bianca found herself a strange place for the second morning in a row.

"Good morning." Spencer's voice came from only feet away, and she bolted upright, surprised to see him reclining in a nearby armchair with a book open in his lap, watching her.

"What are you doing over there?" she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Spencer shut the book, setting it down next to a mug of tea. "Couldn't sleep," he explained. "So I came out here to read instead."

"Why not just stay in bed?" He was still wearing pajamas, she noted, and sporting a pair of glasses, likely not in the mood to fiddle with contacts. If he was tired, certainly a mattress had to be more comfortable than a chair.

He smiled. "I'd rather be near you. You look so peaceful when you're sleeping." Bianca felt the heat rush to her face, and turned away, blushing. It was one thing to sleep beside Spencer, but it was another to sleep while he watched her. She hoped she hadn't done anything embarrassing while unconscious.

"I'm going to go shower, if that's okay. Are you in the mood for breakfast later?"

Spencer shook his head, slowly, as though moving too fast would throw him off balance. "I'm just going to stick with tea. But you're welcome to whatever you want."

With that, Bianca slipped away to the bathroom, trying to hurry. Standing under the stream of warm water, she realized she'd never spent so much consecutive time in Spencer's apartment. They'd gone over to each other's respective places a few times for dinner, or for afternoons to just be near each other, but only once had she stayed overnight, and purely by accident at that. It always made her strangely happy to take in all of the things that were so uniquely his - the packed bookshelves in the living room, the chess set, the maps and classical music CDs piled up in a corner, even his shampoo at the edge of the shower. She allowed herself a small grin as she set her own bottle down next to it, something just to say _I belong here too_.

Dressed, she returned to the living room, where Reid remained in place on the armchair, glancing up as she passed.

"How are you feeling today?" Bianca asked, grabbing a yogurt from the refrigerator.

"Not too bad. I've got a bit of a headache, but the worst of it hasn't hit yet. Right now I just want to distract myself."

"Well," she replied proudly, "I've brought a whole bunch of films we can watch. I know your movie expertise is nowhere near as extensive as your knowledge of books, so consider this a brief education. A crash course."

She handed him the bag full of DVD and VCR cases, and he poured over them, naming them out loud one by one. " _Roman Holiday, Casablanca, Amelie, It's a Wonderful Life_ …"

"Classics," she told him.

As he dug through the bag, she couldn't help but notice the way his hands shook slightly. The tremors were setting in. " _Love Actually, Mary Poppins, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Forrest Gump, Groundhog Day_ …"

"I may have gotten carried away. I wasn't sure what you'd be in the mood for, so I tried to get some good pick-me-up movies. There's a few classics, some John Hughes, a couple Disney movies-"

"What's your favorite?" he interrupted.

" _The Sound of Music_ always makes me feel better," Bianca answered without hesitation. It was the first one she sought out at the library.

"Then let's start there," he said.

Bianca dug through the bag for the tape, halfway to the television before she stopped. "Can I ask you something first?"

Her tone made him nervous, but he gave her an apprehensive nod. A heavy silence settled over them, burdened with the weight of things unspoken. It was a question she was afraid to bring up, but one she felt she could no longer ignore. If she didn't do it now, she might continue avoiding it until it was too late to get an answer. Pulling courage from deep within, she managed to finally ask, "About the Dilaudid? When you overdosed, were you – were you trying to…" The words were too much, too heavy to name. "Leave?"

The downcast gaze was a sign of his understanding, and waiting for his response was unbearable. If he confirmed her fears, she wouldn't know what to say. The drugs could have easily been a means to end the pain, to reunite with Maeve permanently. "No," he said. "It wasn't like that. I was trying to escape everything, but I never meant for that to happen."

The quiver in his voice left her unconvinced. "I just keep thinking you're going to disappear. That I'll turn around and you'll be gone." Her voice betrayed her as well, trembling like her hands. "That you'll leave me behind."

The implied _again_ hit him, the arrow-tip of a sharp wound. That had been the story, hadn't it? He leaves her, he lies to her, he loses her. Ever patient, she returns. It was clear now that staying was tearing her apart, wondering if he would blow away like smoke in the wind, their love only an illusion.

Illusion, never. His anchor, always.

She needed to know that. Physical proof was the easiest, and his hands found hers, squeezing gently. Those hands he knew as well as his own, small and cold and _hers_. "I'm not going to leave. I'm not running away anymore. I know I haven't done much to prove that to you lately, but I don't want to go away. I won't." Releasing her hands, he pulled her close, pressing her to his chest. When she wrapped her arms around his waist, it was like the world settled into place again. That was where she belonged, tucked in his embrace. It felt so right, so natural and necessary.

Images of Derek, Penelope, and JJ played back in his head, the three of them helping him to shelve his misplaced books once more. He could still remember that quiet moment, when he alone put that last volume into place, restoring balance to his home. That was this same moment, his heart restored to something whole.

"I won't leave you behind. I can't. You're as much a part of me as my hands or my lungs." Reaching for her wrist, he placed her palm on his chest, just left of center, where his heart continued to beat. He had her to thank for that. "You're always with me. And I'll always come back to you."

For a moment she seemed on the verge of tears, and he didn't want to make her cry again. He wanted to make her smile, wanted to make her feel safe. Vaguely, an old promise drifted to the forefront of his mind. A decision to give her the love she deserved, to show her a home. More than anything he wanted to keep his word.

But then her expression changed, the corners of her mouth turned upwards instead. "So, how about that movie?"

* * *

Sleep continued to evade him. He was awake all night, tossing and turning and trying to think of something to calm his mind. The tremors had set in at some point, and his hands were shaking. Beyond that his head hurt, every muscle in his body was sore, and even his _bones_ seemed to ache. It was in those difficult hours that his thoughts turned to old memories, picking through the happy and the sad alike. That particular hour had him thinking about Maeve.

He was haunted by memories. When he closed his eyes, he could see her so clearly. Standing up to greet him in that gray sweater, her long auburn hair down her back. And those eyes, those eyes the color of a storm-churned ocean. He never had the chance to see her smile in person, only in pictures, but that was enough to conjure an image in his mind. There were so many things about her he still wanted to know, so many things he never got to tell her. Maeve Donovan was always going to hold a place in his heart, one that could never belong to anyone else. It would never go away, and he would never know what could have happened.

What if she had lived? What if they had met in person? He'd made all those plans, dreams of what he thought could happen. They would meet and go on dates like normal people, and someday he would buy a ring and ask her to marry him, probably with some Thomas Merton quote, the same one she'd written for him. She would have said yes and they would get married, then buy some house just outside of the District where they could have a library full of Arthur Conan Doyle books and a kitchen full of microscopes. And maybe, eventually, they would have kids together. Children with her hair and his eyes who would grow up listening to mysteries and playing with science kits.

All of those things would remain so forever: only dreams. There was no way to know if they could have had any merit in reality. He left the bed, pushing open his door and shuffling quietly into the hallway where he could see the living room sofa. That was one thing he was certain of. On that couch, someone was sleeping soundly; a woman who loved him, and who would go to hell and back for him. No, scratch that. She _had_ gone to hell and back for him. Not just once, but twice. He was tempted to go over and wake her up, just so he could hold her, just to thank her for always finding him. Before he could act on the impulse, another one overtook him, and he sprinted to the bathroom to be sick.

When it seemed to be over, he pushed himself up from the bathroom floor. Reid wanted desperately to sleep, if only to dream, so he could see Maeve. He wanted to talk to her, ask her if she was okay with him moving on. What would she have thought of Bianca? Of their relationship? It would likely be a week before he could sleep long enough to dream at all. There were no conversations he could have yet, no signs he could ask for.

"Spencer? Are you okay?" Bianca pushed the door open. Well, that was as good a sign as any in this life. He had never been particularly superstitious, but he wasn't a big believer in coincidences either. The mind liked to look for patterns where there were none, but this was so much more than a pattern. His stomach churned again, more violent than any ocean, and he lunged for the toilet bowl once more. Almost as quick, she was right there next to him, pulling his hair away from his face with one hand, and rubbing his back gently with the other.

How long had it been, since someone had taken care of him like that? His mother was having terrible episodes by the time he was nine, and when he came home from college she was falling apart. His father wasn't around, he lived alone, and when he'd last gone through withdrawal, he had done so by himself. It was so much nicer, having someone there with him. No, it was more than that. She was more than just _someone_ to him. "Hey, it's okay, it's okay," she murmured, and her voice was all the reassurance he needed. She was here, and she was with him, and in that moment there was nobody he would rather have.

When she'd offered to stay with him, he tried to refuse, like his head told him he should. But in his heart, he wanted nothing more than to accept her help. His team had his back, he knew that, but it wasn't always necessary to have someone who could break down doors for you or fit together pieces of a technological puzzle to answer your questions. Sometimes all you wanted was somebody who would quietly hold your hand, be your physical shelter from a figurative storm and do something as simple as staying. The act of not leaving was in itself a promise.

With weak knees he pulled himself back up from the tiled floor, flushing the toilet and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What are those?" he asked, nodding towards the items Bianca had set on the counter minutes ago.

She held them out to him, a bottle and a green rectangle. "The ginger ale should help with the nausea, at least a little bit. And this is a packet of mint gum… and well, that's pretty self-explanatory."

"Thanks," he rasped, his throat sore.

"Of course," she replied, and he wondered how it could just seem like second nature to her to stick with him through this mess. It was just who she was. Maeve was fire, bright and consuming, until she burned out. Bianca was water, gentle and cleansing, always returning like waves to the shore. Two sides of the same coin, two overlapping parts of his heart.

It wasn't until a few hours later that he finally managed get a few short hours of sleep, grateful for that simple relief.

Early that morning, Bianca tiptoed down the hall, standing at his door. It was nearly six, and he wasn't up. She could hear him though, his voice muffled by the door, and she pressed her ear against the wood to try and determine if he was awake or not. His voice was soft, and she could only catch a few words here and there. "Maeve… Maeve."

She froze, hearing the unmistakable repetition of that name. And then she hurried back into the living room to dig through her bag. She needed to run.

* * *

When he woke up in the morning, she was gone. Reid fell asleep somewhere after five in the morning, and it was now seven. He had expected to hear Bianca moving around the apartment, but it was strangely silent. When he saw she wasn't on the couch, he felt immediately awake, the sense that something was wrong working like adrenaline. She wasn't in the bathroom, or the kitchen. He stumbled towards the front door in a panic. Her bag was still here. Her phone was on the coffee table. Where was she? He darted back into the bedroom, threw his robe over his pajamas, and hurtled back to the door of his apartment. It was already unlocked. Why would she have gone somewhere without telling him, and without taking her phone?

His heart was racing, his groggy mind moving nearly as quickly as he calculated all the possible scenarios. Over the roar of statistics, he nearly missed the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Someone was running. Cautiously, he peered through the peephole. There she was, in a blur, running past him, down the hall. He opened the door quietly, watching as she continued down the hallway and up the stairs on the other end. She was in her usual running clothes, a ring of sweat around the neck of her shirt. How long had she been out here? He caught a glimpse of her face as she ran, her eyes narrowed in something like frustration.

Bianca ran, he knew, for many reasons. She took routes all through the city to clear her head, but she hated running on treadmills or running stairs. This was run of atonement. Reid stood there in the hall, waiting for her to come back down. Seconds later, she did, hurrying down the hardwood floor. He took a step into her path, and she came to a skidding halt in front of him, switching her speed to jog in place instead. "You're up," she panted.

"What are you doing?"

"I needed. To go. For a run." She needed a breath between words. "Didn't want to. Go too far. In case you needed. Something. I'm almost done." She started up again, dodging past him to continue another set of stairs, but he moved in time to grab her around the waist. "Spencer!"

She squirmed, trying to free herself from his grasp, but despite the state he was in, he was still stronger than her. Finally surrendering, she turned around to glare up at him, red in the face. A glance at the runner's watch on her wrist told him she'd be running for nearly a half-hour and had accumulated almost five miles. It would've taken dozens of sets of stairs to do that. "Why are you out here?" he demanded.

"I was thinking. And then I started worrying. And when I worry too much, I feel trapped unless I'm running. I guess it just took longer for me to work out than I expected."

"What are you so worried about?" This was beginning to feel like an interrogation.

"You," Bianca admitted. "I was just... I felt like I failed you. I started thinking about all the reasons I should've talked to you before, and once I start thinking, I don't really stop thinking. So I started running instead. You were finally sleeping, so I didn't think you would be up yet." Her expression changing to one of concern, she asked, "Are you feeling okay?"

"Not too bad. For now, at least." The two hours of sleep he _had_ managed to get were helping a little, but the effects would be fleeting and minimal.

"I'm guessing you're not going to let me finish my run?"

Reid glanced at her watch again. "4.87 miles seems like a good enough number. Why don't you come inside? You can shower, and I'll make you breakfast." He still wasn't in any mood to eat, but he wanted to make sure that she did.

"Spencer, you know I love you, and I would trust you with my life. But the only thing I would trust you to cook is toast." He laughed. There was no denying that. "I'll make my own breakfast, and you just rest a little while."

"Hey," he added, as they ventured back inside. "Is there something else that was bothering you?"

Bianca hesitated. "I heard you talking in your sleep earlier. You called out for Maeve. A few times actually. I know you still miss her, and I just don't want to make this any harder for you… You sounded so sad."

Had he? He couldn't remember dreaming at all last night, but everything was sort of hazy right now. It had to be confusing for her though, to hear him promise he wouldn't leave her, only to hear him calling out for someone else that same night. Whatever he'd said in his sleep, he didn't want it to be misunderstood, didn't want her to feel as though she was somehow second best to a ghost.

"I still think about her," he admitted. "And I still love her. I used to think it would never get any easier. But... it has, with time, and with help. Having you in my life has made things so much better. If you're worried that I would rather she was here, well, there's no clear answer. I wish she was still alive, of course. But the more I think about it, the more complicated it gets. If I hadn't met you, so many things would be different. And I hadn't broken up with you, then I wouldn't have met Maeve; and if she hadn't died, I probably would never have seen you again.

"I'm not good at relationships. I am, however, good at math. If I treat it like a math problem, and isolate the variable, the solution is much easier. Without factoring in everything else that's happened, what I'm sure of this: I'm glad you're here. And I love you." A strand of hair had fallen into her face, and he pushed it behind her ear.

"I love you too," she whispered back. "And I'm very glad you're here."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Thank you for sticking with me through this arc. I promise to reward you all with SO much fluff next chapter.**

 **Thank you to tannerose5, sabinadz, toxic click, xomusicfreak24, MyNewPenName, Dreamingmydaysaway, longitudinal fissure, Princess Jaquline Chess, Clumsy-Bookworm298, and AlexJMP for following and/or favoriting! Also, I can't believe there's 99 people following this fic. Thanks so very much to each and every one of you!  
**

 **I'm so incredibly grateful to my faithful reviewers: ripon** (there's still so much I want to explore with them!) **, ahowell1993** (I've written it, but I'm afraid if I give you a hint it'll spoil it), **tannerose5** (glad you've caught up!), **sabinadz** (I'm so excited to see you've joined FF! Your reviews give me life dear!), **dianakotori** (indeed, she's by his side. I think it's presented an interesting opportunity for the two of them to reconnect, albeit in an unconventional manner), **Love-Fiction-2016, and smilin steph** (happy to please!) **! You always make my day, and to hear from any of my readers makes writing so so worth it.  
I'm trying to stick to a more consistent posting schedule, so I'm aiming to update every Wednesday/Thursday as much as possible.  
**


	23. 23) Right Here

It was a long week. There were moments of laughter and joy - Bianca enjoyed watching his reaction to so many different movies, and talking about them afterwards. There were also hours of silence, when Spencer would lie in his room, the door shut, and Bianca would sit outside and read, trying not to make any noise, unless he shouted for a bucket. The team called to check in a few times, even offered to stop by, but Reid insisted he didn't want them to see him like that. Six days in, he stumbled out from the bathroom, his face ghostly pale, the circles under his eyes darker than she could remember them ever being.

Spencer gave a long sigh. "I got maybe two hours of sleep last night. My head is pounding, and I feel like I got hit by a truck," he groaned.

"Come sit with me," Bianca implored him. "It's getting late, and maybe it would help just to relax a little before you try to sleep." He plopped down at the other end of the couch, but he still seemed restless.

"Can I… lie down?" he asked, pointing to the cushions. She nodded, and started to stand up to give him space. "No, no," he said quickly. "Um, just, could you maybe stay there?" Confused, Bianca sat back down, ready to do whatever it took to help him feel better. He looked at her for a moment, and then stretched out, resting his head in her lap. She tried not to stiffen up, regarding him curiously. After a few minutes, his tense shoulders began to relax ever so slightly, and she reached up to stroke his hair in what she hoped was a soothing manner. They said nothing, just sat that way as the minutes passed. Just when her legs were starting to tingle from the pressure, he sat up slowly.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," he declared. "But I have another request - I guess more of a theory, really."

"What would that be?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

Spencer looked embarrassed, turning his gaze to the ground. "Would you… would you mind sleeping with me?" Hearing his own words out loud, he looked back up, evidently flustered. "Not like that!" he clarified. "I just think it might help me sleep, or at least relax a little, if you're next to me. I mean, it helped in the hospital…" he ventured.

Feeling as flustered as he looked, Bianca hesitantly agreed. If it helped him to rest, it was worth it, right? Besides, it wasn't like anything was going to happen. It was just the two of them sleeping side by side, which they'd already done once before. She went to the bathroom to change, and knocked on the door of his bedroom, her heart in her throat.

Spencer pulled the door open, already in a t-shirt and sweatpants. She was always a little surprised to see him dressed in something other than cardigans and ties. The clothes seemed to be so much a part of his personality as his rambling facts, or his goofy grin - she wondered if it was as odd for him to see _her_ in running shorts and a sweatshirt. For a second, her hands itched to reach out and touch him, to run her fingertips over the bold navy _FBI_ letters on his gray shirt; instead she meekly stepped inside.

The couple looked equally awkward, standing there on the rug. Neither seemed to know exactly what to do now that she was in his room. In the hospital, there had been so much chaos, all sorrow and fear and relief, that when Spencer had pulled her into the bed they hadn't dared to let go. Minutes ago he had been eager to test his theory, she eager to help him; and now that formalities were out of the way, they were both simultaneously afraid to initiate something, and unwilling to leave.

In the uncomfortable intermission, Bianca looked around the bedroom. It was spacious enough, filled with things he liked. There were books strewn across his nightstand, a short stack atop which an alarm clock perched. More books lined a bookshelf nearby, though it wasn't quite as tall as the ones in the living room. She could make out a few of the titles; _Solaris, A Picture of Dorian Gray, Maphead, The Narrative of John Smith,_ and two that turned her cheeks pink. She didn't realize he had both of her books sitting in his room. The pale green walls were fairly bare save for two paintings and a world map. On his dresser, she could see a few photograph frames, which she could easily guess held pictures of the BAU team. The room was simple and tidy, with two curtained windows and dark-wood bed with a cream colored comforter - though from the way the pillows and sheets looked it was clear he hadn't been feeling particularly restful.

"You must be tired," she said softly. She stepped towards the bed hesitantly, and then paused, wondering how to ask him which side she should sleep on.

As though he reading her mind, he hurried around to the far side of the bed near the window and the nightstand, answering her unspoken question. "Um, please…" he gestured to the bed, clearing his throat. Bianca took a deep breath, trying to regain her senses.

It was just Spencer. They'd spent so much time together, sharing some of the most intimate parts of themselves. This wasn't moving in with him, it wasn't deciding to _sleep with him_ sleep with him. It was just lying next to him and helping him to deal with withdrawal. Maybe part of it was the two years they'd spent on separate continents. Before his migraines began, they'd spent countless hours together, learning the most intimate parts of each other's lives and memorizing the geography of each other's bodies, only to spend 730 days drifting apart.

But she'd already held his hair back while he threw up, not to mention having found him OD'd and then spending the night in his hospital bed. Only a week ago, she had been terrified that she was losing him. Why was she so nervous over being near to him now?

Bianca reached up onto the mattress, and hoisted herself up. The bed was higher than she had anticipated, and she had to hop a little to get on top of it. The maneuver was enough to entice a laugh from Spencer's lips. She felt a tad self-conscious about her height watching how he sat down next to her with ease.

"You're so small," he chuckled. "Sometimes I forget _how_ small."

"You're just extra tall," she countered, as he wrapped his long fingers around her thin arm. "Besides, sometimes it's not a bad thing, being short."

"Like what?" he invited.

"Well, like, sometimes I get discounts places. They've given me a kid's price at the movies every now and then - though other times I try to see an R rated movie and they question my ID." He flashed her another fatigued smile. "And I never have a problem sleeping on a couch or sitting in the middle seat." She thought, while he pulled his legs up over the side of the bed. "And there are other things," Bianca mused, recalling the long afternoons they used to spend lying side by side on the sofa.

Spencer furrowed his brow, waiting for her to go on. "Sometimes, when you're little, you fit into small places easily. Or, you just fit anywhere comfortably." Part curious, part exhausted, Reid pulled the covers up, rested his head on the pillows, and turned to one side so he could still see her. Bianca did the same, then crawled closer to him, curling up against his chest. "Like right here," she whispered.

"You fit perfectly right here." There in his room, everything felt more in place than it had in a very long time. It was warm and it was calm and Spencer's breathing gradually slowed to a steady rhythm, his arms relaxing around her. It would take him another hour to fall asleep, and he would dream for only four hours and thirty-seven minutes, but it would be the best night he'd had since he started detoxing. Even when he awoke around two in the morning, he felt so much more at peace with Bianca sleeping beside him even if he wasn't.

* * *

Reid was staring up at the ceiling, his back on the living room rug. Next to him lay Bianca, facing the opposite direction, her feet pointed at the opposite wall and the sound of her breath just audible over the piano music drifting through the air from the CD player. Earlier that day they had worked their way through _Groundhog Day_ (a surprisingly philosophical movie, he decided) and _Casablanca_. At just past noon, when the room seemed to tilt and his head felt heavy, he'd slid from the couch to the floor, where she had joined him; content to lie next to him, no questions asked.

With each passing day, he grew more grateful for her continued presence. Being with her was far better than dealing with all of this alone. Constantly he was discovering small things about her, like how ritualized her breakfast was, or how she had a habit of using all the hot water when she showered. She sometimes hummed when she cooked, and she liked looking out at the city through the window at night. There were some things that you could only learn by living with someone. He loved those little quirks, all the things that made her who she was.

He loved her patience and her laughter, he liked the way his hand fit on her waist, the way her touch made him feel more present. He liked the hours when he was awake and she was asleep, her guard down, and they were beside each other on his bed. Lost in a dream, she would inch closer to him, nestling into his chest or letting an arm fall across his torso. Sometimes, a small smile would grace her features, and his heart would warm at the notion that mere proximity could do that, even subconsciously.

"Tell me a story," he said suddenly, his voice rising over the crescendo of the music.

She stirred beside him. "What kind of story?"

"Something I haven't heard before. I've told you so many stories about Maeve, and what happened in those two years, but I don't think I've heard as many of yours. What happened to you in Europe?"

He knew the basics, where she had lived and what some of the classes were like. She had already shown him photos of the Peace Palace and the canals, and a few of buildings with poems painted on their sides. In the last few months, he had needed to get more off of his chest, and so she had listened until he finally asked her about her years abroad.

After a minute, she seemed to have come up with one. "Okay," she began. "Have I told you about the time I got lost in Amsterdam?"

"No, not yet." He closed his eyes, to let her words paint a picture in his mind.

"Well, Europe is well ahead of us on infrastructure. I could take a train nearly anywhere I wanted. Of course, the first thing I wanted to do was visit Amsterdam again. I had been in country for only a week and a half, just getting settled in. That weekend, I decided I was ready to explore. I called Aoibhegréine and asked her to go with me." Reid recognized the mouthful of a name belonging to her Welsh friend. "And naturally she agreed. Now it would have made sense to stop and plan out our evening before we left The Hague, but I was born with wanderlust in my veins, and spontaneity is practically Eva's religion."

He smiled to himself at the way she could make even the simplest of tales sound poetic. "Now, we took our bags and hopped on the train to Amsterdam Centraal station. Amsterdam is full of canals and bridges and sidestreets, which can quickly become a maze if you're not careful. It was still light out, and so we let ourselves wander without care. We visited the Rijksmuseum and a few touristy shops. Eva was dying to take a tour of the canals, and so we did. She demanded we get off at a random stop, just to see where we ended up. De Oude Kerk is an ancient church which claims the title as the oldest building in the city, and that's where we climbed out of the boat and back onto the street.

"At this point, the sun hand set over the horizon, and it was quickly getting darker and darker. Eva and I followed a street at random, and when we stepped out from the alley, my jaw fell open. Like any city, Amsterdam lights up at night, but unlike other cities, these lights typically come in two different colors. The most common are golden lights. The lamps that line the streets and the strands hung over bridges, reflecting in the water, and the lights of hotels and museums are all yellow, a natural light. In particular parts of the city though, you'll find a very different kind of light. When we saw the lights, we realized we were in De Wallen."

"De Wallen," he said groggily, trying to get his sleepy brain remember the significance of the name. "Isn't that…"

"The _Rosse Buurt,_ " Bianca told him, with the dramatic flair of a movie narrator. "We had landed ourselves in the Red Lights District. All around us were glass windows illuminated by red tinted lights, occupied by workers in lingerie. The street was filled with customers and tourists alike, interested in varying degrees by what they saw. Eva was amused at this stroke of fate, and she laughed and laughed as I stood dumbstruck next to her. I suppose, in a manner of speaking, it was funny that two women studying international law had ended up in one of the most controversial locations in the Netherlands.

"But at that moment, all I could think about were statistics on human trafficking. How the country is the top destination for victims, and how two-thirds of prostitutes there aren't EU citizens like the law requires, and that roughly seven thousand women are exploited every year. And how in 2009, one-hundred-and-forty Nigerian girls were smuggled into the country and forced to work the windows." The speed of her voice was rapidly picking up, taking on the tone of quiet outrage he had come to recognize when she was passionate about righting an injustice. Bianca inhaled, catching herself as she was getting sidetracked.

"I was just so appalled by it all, I started to cry, right there in the middle of the road. People started to look at me funny, and Eva stopped laughing. She wrapped her arm around me and we kept walking until we found our way out of De Wallen, thanks to a few friendly locals. I remember I just kept saying, _I want to go home, I want to go home._ I'm sure Eva would have rather stayed there a little while longer, but we crossed the bridge back over to the station, and took the train back instead. She didn't say a word on the way back, but I could tell she wasn't mad at me.

"I think she was worried. We got back to The Hague and she dragged me over to an empty looking café, and bought me hot chocolate. She apologized for what happened, and she was so sincere about it. " _I'm sorry, ma bichette. Please don't be upset_ ," she told me." Bianca did her best impression of her friend's distinct accent. It was odd to hear someone else's nickname for her, to be reminded that there were friends of hers he knew nothing of.

"She grasped my hands and said, " _Tha's only one part o' the country. I know how awful homesickness can be, but I promise things are going to get easier_." I was totally caught off guard, and I asked her what she was talking about. As it turns out, she thought I was threatening to quit the program and fly home. I assured her that I wasn't, I had only meant that I wanted to get out of De Wallen that night. She was so relieved I couldn't help but laugh. That's the moment I knew for sure that we were going to become close friends. We each went back to our separate apartments, and I crawled under the covers, staring out my window at the night sky and trying to the count the stars.

"You know that the house I grew up in was the farthest thing from feeling like home. And like I said, I was born with a certain sense of wanderlust. I knew that home was more of an emotion and less a particular location, but I think that night I realized that maybe home was as simple as having somewhere – or someone – to return to."

Her last words came soft and gentle, letting him know that she had concluded her story. Something grazed against the top of his head, and as he opened his eyes he became acutely aware of her fingers running through his hair. It was such a comfortable sensation, his heart more than content to stay there on the floor like that, letting her soothe his exhaustion away.

"Bianca?" he asked. To his great relief, she didn't stop stroking his hair.

"Yes, my love?"

Reid had learned that sometimes the truth could slip out by accident, by it still made his stomach flutter to hear that old term of endearment, the syllables rolling from her lips in an effortless breath she barely seemed conscious of. She hadn't used those words since he left her standing in an empty hallway, and that alone told him the answer to his question, but he asked anyways, just to hear her say it out loud. "Where would you say your home is, now?"

Her hand pulled away from him, and the next thing he knew she was sitting on her knees, her face just above his own. A tender smile played on her lips, softening her features. He gazed up at her, taking in the soft blush creeping over tiny dots of freckles on her cheeks and the dark eyes watching him from beneath her lashes. "My home," she said, "is right here." And with that, she leaned down and kissed him.

* * *

Eight days passed before the majority of the withdrawal symptoms subsided. It wasn't glamorous or easy, but the two shouldered through it, waiting to arrive on the other side. They wordlessly agreed to continue testing Reid's theory when Bianca knocked on his door the next night, and he invited her back in. It was comfortable, falling asleep next to him and waking up beside him. The bed was warm and cozy, and the blankets smelled just like Spencer – that familiar fragrance of coffee, soap, and autumn. Smell was one of the strongest triggers for memories, and at some point that scent had become irrevocably linked with her definition of home; one mingled with that of books and paper, as his apartment was practically a library.

She wondered what it would be like to fall into that routine every day, the first and last minutes being spent so close together She reminded herself that many of his nights would be spent on the bed of a hotel, or the seat of a plane, but somehow the possibility still excited her.

"So the headaches are gone too?" Bianca asked him one morning. They were sitting at the table, conversing over scrambled eggs and toast and orange juice, Reid's appetite finally returning.

"Yeah," he said, looking pleased. "I kind of feel like a normal human being again. It's nice."

"And it only took eight days," she joked. "Eight days and lots of old movies."

"I'm actually pretty glad you brought those. I've never really spent time watching films that way." There were movies he enjoyed, but for him, it was just as fast to read a book. Withdrawal made focusing on books far more difficult, and he found himself enjoying most of the movies they watched together - and they'd finished at least half of the stack Bianca had brought.

"Are there more eggs?" he asked, having already finished off a large serving. Bianca nodded, laughing while he gave her a sheepish smile. Not only had his appetite returned, but it had returned with a vengeance as though making up for lost time. They would have to go out for groceries again at this rate.

They finished eating, and did the dishes together. Bianca glanced at the calendar on the wall as she dried the soapy water from her hands. There were six days left before Reid could be evaluated to go back to work, and with the team away on the case, she wondered if he still wanted her company.

"Now that you're feeling better, do you need me to stay?" She leaned against the counter and glanced over at him, standing in the living room and perusing her bag of DVDs.

"Do you want to stay?" he countered, turning to face her.

"If you want me to, I wouldn't be opposed." Bianca was tiptoeing around her own desires, not yet ready to leave him when she had six days before he would return to the BAU, jet-setting off to new cases. At the same time, she didn't want to bother or burden him.

"I always like having you around. You make me happy." She blushed, surprised at his honesty. "And it might be nice to spend a few days together where I'm well-rested, not throwing up, and not grumpy." His mouth formed one of those flat smiles, the kind he made when he felt awkward and didn't know what else to do with his facial muscles.

"You weren't that bad," Bianca told him. There had been afternoons when he couldn't watch a movie without criticizing the impossibleness of it - "Hair isn't actually strong enough to sustain the weight of a human being that way, at least not without having been braided beforehand"- or spouting random statistics in frustration, the sort the made the world out to be more depressing than she wanted to believe. Those were few and far between, and he tried to distance himself from her when he was crabbiest.

Mostly there were the mornings when he stumbled around with his hand to his forehead, and spent hours shut up in the bathroom or the bedroom. When he needed help, she would hold his hand, or pull back his hair for him (secretly she ad thought it looked kind of cute that way, but figured it wasn't a good time to say that), or bring a wet washcloth for him to lay on his forehead.

"Really," she insisted. "I'm glad I could be there for you this time."

His face softened. "Thank you," he said earnestly. "For sticking with me through everything. There aren't many people who would." Bianca started to say something, but he held up his hands. "I mean that. You've dealt with a lot of things on my behalf. You listen to me when I come back from a case, no matter how difficult or gruesome, and you ask all the right questions. You accepted me even after I told you about the Dilaudid, and about my mom's condition.

"I pushed you away, and when you came home I said horrible things to you and you forgave every word. You went to get help when I was using again, you found me when I had overdosed, and even then you didn't leave me. You even stayed with me through withdrawal. That - that's not something easy to do." She stared at him, trying to read his face, wishing that she too was a profiler and could deduce what he was thinking. "I'm sorry I've put you through all of this."

"Spencer." She said his name softly, laying the syllables gently into the air between them. "You've been through a lot. And that's not your fault."

"I know, I know. But I also know this must've been hard for you. And it means the world to me. I… I wouldn't be here without you."

Bianca crossed the short living room to close the distance between them. "It'll take more than that to get rid of me," she said, hoping to wash the grim look from his face. "I knew what I was getting into. We both have skeletons in the closet. But I want to stay with you. For as long as I can."

He took her hands and pulled her in, near enough that she had to look up to meet his eyes. "I'd like that," he told her. "You're the brightest spot in my world." She drew a sharp breath in, allowing herself for the first time in a few days to think how close she had come to losing him, how easily she could've woken up to a world without him. Bianca closed her eyes, a stray tear slipping out. "What's wrong?" Spencer asked, concern clear in his voice.

With another inhale, she squeezed his hands. He was right there - his bony hands warm, a pulse in his long fingers, his heart beating, bringing life to the mind she held so dear, all making up the man she was so grateful to have in front of her. "It's just that I don't want to have to imagine a world without you."

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised, repeating the words that she had told him a week before. Searching her eyes for a moment, he leaned down to seal them with a kiss, his mouth soft on hers, and the unshaven scruff along his jaw tickling her cheek. Spencer's hands moved to her face, brushing her tears away with the pad of his thumb.

Realizing how far down he must've been stooped over to reach her level, she tried to lessen the difference by standing up on her toes. He noticed what she was doing though, and she felt him smile against her lips. Taking her arms and placing them around his neck, he then lifted her up by her waist, keeping a tight grip on her. It was a feeling worth savoring, their mouths moving in sync, her hands in his hair. "This," she said, as she pulled back, giggling, "is another thing being small is good for."

"I agree wholeheartedly."

"Though it might just be easier if we sat down."

With her still in his arms, Spencer's long legs allowed him to step swiftly over to the couch. He dropped down and Bianca settled snugly in his lap, while his hands traveled up her back. She traced over his ear, his neck, pausing with both hands pressed against his chest.

"Better?"

"Better," he laughed, moving to kiss her again.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Fluff? Fluff. They spent time getting to know each other well before the breakup, and the second time around is a different sort of knowing. More intimate, more honest, more gentle. I hope you can forgive me for the prior angst.**

 **Thank you to all of my readers - having people to share this story with means so very much, and I'm incredibly grateful. A special thank you to galatea93 for favoriting this story!**

 **To ahowell1993** (it might be a bit harder for her to convince him to run while he's going through withdrawal, haha, but perhaps after he's feeling better!) **, mlr96** (hopefully I can balance out all that angst with some well-needed fluff!) **, sabinadz** (I LOVE LOVE YOU! I'm hoping to write a scene with one of their birthdays again. Including hers at the beginning served to prompt Reid's first promise to her), **and Love-Fiction-2016, you all are simply splendid! Thank you for taking the time to review this story. Hearing from those of you who keep up with this story always makes me smile!  
**


	24. 24) Shelter from the Storm

"There's something I've been meaning to ask," he'd said at one point. "Are we still… together?" It certainly felt that way, sleeping together, kissing on the sofa, sharing an apartment.

Bianca had merely smiled. "After all this time, I don't think we really need to define _what_ we are. I just know that we _are_. I'm yours, and you're mine, and I don't ever want it to stop being that way." And that was that.

She had to admit, it was great fun, pretending to be a normal couple. They went grocery shopping - Spencer was quickly depleting the meager stock she had previously bought - and book shopping, which took them hours. They went out for ice cream, and even to a matinee movie where they had the theater to themselves. They passed mornings reading and evenings watching old films. Sometimes they would just spend time sitting together, enjoying each other's presence. One particular afternoon was spent on his couch, his feet on the coffee table while she reclined with her head in his lap, telling stories and talking for hours about whatever came to mind.

With their days together coming to a close, she found herself trying to take in everything while it lasted. All the little details about how he lived, small habits and new discoveries. There were the various volumes of books he kept in his room, the abundance of sweaters in his closet, and the photos on his desk. Bianca examined them one by one, asking him to explain their contents. The blonde woman was his mother, whom she still hoped to meet someday. To her right was a photograph of Emily with Penelope and Morgan in front of the London Eye.

"Who are they?" she asked, pointing at a shot of several people.

"I guess that's sort of the 'original' team," Spencer answered. She could make out JJ and Morgan, who both looked much younger in the image. "That's Gideon." He pointed to an older man with thinning hair and a reluctant smile. "And that's Elle Greenaway." Elle had sharp features and appeared to be laughing at something. "She left the team after a year. Things were hard for her after she was attacked in her home. I think it just got to be too much for her." Of the team members who had come and gone, Elle was the only one he hadn't received some form of a goodbye from, and he often wondered what she was up to these days.

The end was obscured by a gorgeous shot of JJ, Will, and Henry at the previous year's wedding, and she pushed it aside slightly, realizing why he kept it hidden. "Is that _you_?" The man in the picture looked so different from the one beside her, his face slightly rounder and his expression a little more distant. In many ways, a stranger to her. What was that version of Spencer like? She would have to ask Morgan or Garcia sometime. "What's with that haircut?" she laughed.

"I know, it's ridiculous," he muttered.

Bianca pushed the wedding photo back into place, saving him the embarrassment. The last two photos were two she'd never seen before. One was an unfamiliar woman whose face instantly fit to stories she'd heard. Dark red hair and kind eyes, the only person it could be was Maeve. Finally, there was a framed picture of the two of them, embracing in a park.

"When was this one taken?" It wasn't one she could remember.

"Remember that time we ran into Garcia in the park? She took it when we weren't looking. I showed up to work one day, and it was sitting on my desk." What she didn't understand was why she'd never seen it until then. "Well, I kept it at the office for a while, where I needed it most," Spencer admitted. "After we broke up, I put it in a box with the rest of your things."

"There was a box?" Bianca raised an eyebrow.

He nodded, pursing his lips. "Yeah, there was a box. That picture, your book, the mug you used whenever you were here. A few of the letters and notes you'd written me, they all went in there. It was too hard to look at them, but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of them either. So I put them in a box, and left it under the bed." He'd placed her things in a box, and she'd packed his sweater in a suitcase to take across the globe. "It's silly, isn't it?"

"Not at all," she said. "It's kind of sweet. And definitely better than that haircut." Spencer conceded that was true. That haircut would embarrass him as long as memories of it still existed. "You know, you're not the only one with ridiculous things in their past. When I was little, I used to watch _The Sound of Music_ whenever I was sick. It always made me feel better. I wanted to be just like Maria, so I learned all the songs. One day, I tore down our drapes and tried to cut them up into clothing just like she did in the movie."

"Wow. I'm guessing your parents didn't take it too well?"

"No they didn't. But I had my heart set on being a governess, so I thought it would be good practice. I used to dream about moving to Austria, and singing and dancing my say through life."

It was silly, thinking about it now, but back then how was she to know that governesses were a European fixture? She had spent hours dancing around the backyard and practicing the songs. Without warning, Spencer held his hand out to her. "Who says you still can't?" Bianca raised an eyebrow. " _Do allow me_?" he asked. It was the line the Captain said in the film, when he cut in as Maria tried to teach his son to dance.

"I don't-" she began.

"Eidetic memory," he reminded her. "I remember every step. Just follow my lead."

He led her out into the living room, and she tried to position her hands in his from what she could recall. He hummed _The Landler_ under his breath and led her carefully through the dance. They stepped and spun, and he twirled her circles. It seemed to be going well, until they began to turn in a wide circle, and Spencer tripped, swearing as he bumped his leg against the coffee table.

"Are you alright?" she gasped.

He looked at her with such a pout that she couldn't help but laugh. "I guess an eidetic memory doesn't exactly make up for a total lack of coordination," he admitted.

"Well, it's the thought that counts, right?" she tried. He smiled at her, placing his hand on her waist.

"Maybe we should just start here." He hummed something else; a piece she was sure she'd heard him play a recording of before - something classical, on the piano. It was slower, this tune. They stood closer together, and Spencer moved them in a steady, careful circle, a sort of gentle waltz. Bianca let her head fall against his chest, feeling the low rumble of each bar he hummed, his heartbeat keeping time.

When he stopped humming, he pulled away, gazing down at her. Softly, he ran his fingers down her arm. "I don't think I've ever told you how beautiful you are."

Shaking her head she protested, "I'm not."

"So you're saying I'm wrong?" A crease appeared on his forehead where his eyebrows knit together. 'That's insulting my opinion. I can see you far better than you can. You've only ever seen yourself in a mirror or a photo, and in a mirror your brain adapts to recognizing your reflection despite it being flipped around. Our brain modifies images based on our own perception, and our composite image of ourselves is affected by years of memories and biases."

The psychology of self-image, one area of study that had always hit close to home for her. As much as she adored his explanations, especially when they involved psych, she still found it hard to accept. One hand reached up again, as Spencer touched her cheek. "I know what you think of yourself, but when I look at you, I see the most beautiful person, with the most beautiful heart." At that she could feel herself blush, and she wondered if he could feel the heat rising in her face beneath his fingertips. "And I would really like it if you would believe me when I say that."

If only it were so easy. Of course she wanted to believe him. Bianca trusted him, but it was hard to trust herself. "I can't promise that," she replied. "But I'll try."

It was a relief when she felt him gently kiss her cheek. "I know. That's all I want." Spencer himself was by no means confident in his own appearance, not imposing like Hotch or built like Morgan. He was lanky, all lean muscle and gangly limbs. But for her, he was perfect. He made her feel safe, not only in the physical sense, but in all the ways that mattered. All of her secrets and her fears and her doubts were no match for him. Love pushed fear away, made you braver.

With him, she didn't have to worry about judgment or criminal masterminds. She was also learning to stop worrying about physical contact. There were times she feared his fingers might someday find some flaw of hers that turned him off, that changed his mind. That never happened, and she finally gave herself the permission to relax into his touch, to focus on the shiver-worthy sensation his skin caused rather than the fear she might not be enough. It wasn't terribly hard to do, when he caressed her body more tenderly than she ever had, hands ghosting across her shoulders as they fell asleep; splayed across her back as he kissed her feverishly on the sofa.

If there was anyone who made her feel like more than enough, it was him.

* * *

It rained that night, a downpour that seemingly came out of nowhere. He loved the sound of the rain, the patter of water hitting the street and the rooftop. Outside his window was not a drizzle, but a howling storm, the sort with winds that rattle even the streetlamps and lightning that flashes through the curtains. It wasn't the great boom of the thunder that woke him, but the sudden jolt that came just after the clatter as Bianca leapt from his arms. By the time Reid sat up in the bed, her footsteps were already pattering across the floor and throwing open the bedroom door. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he felt around for his glasses on the bedside table, grateful for the blinding glare of lightning that illuminated the room just then. Throwing them on, he hurried out into the hall after her, and noticed the light streaming from the crack under the bathroom door.

He rapped on the wood with his knuckles. "Bianca? Can I come in?" There was a muffled _yes_ , and pushed the door open, puzzled by the sight he found within. "Is uh…" He blinked, licked his lips, and tried to sound casual. "Is there a reason you're in the bathtub?"

With her knees pulled in tightly against her chest, she looked up at him with doe-wide eyes. "It's thundering." That much was obvious. "And in a thunderstorm, the safest place is in the bathroom, away from the windows. The pipes make it more structurally sound."

To the best of his knowledge – which included a great deal more than most encyclopedias, even – bathrooms were typically a shelter in case of a tornado, not a thunderstorm. Even if there had been sirens going off, there was another flaw in her logic. "You do realize that we're on the second floor, right?"

"I was trying not to think about that." There was another clap of thunder, and she jumped, squeezing her eyes shut.

"You're afraid of thunderstorms," he said, remembering one of their earliest phone conversations. She nodded. Reid closed the door behind him, and sat down on the edge of the tub. "Do you want to talk about it?"

The nearness of his voice prompted her to open her eyes again. "That's what _I'm_ supposed to ask _you_ ," she said, shaking her head.

"I know. But I'm, uh, not the one hiding in the bathtub right now." It was a strange reversal, after so many months of Bianca working through his fears and his nightmares with him, to now be asking for the reason behind one of hers. He promised himself to be more proactive about that in that following weeks.

Another boom, another wince from her. "I'm being stupid."

"No you're not," he said, reaching for her hand. "I'm afraid of the dark."

"Yeah, but that makes sense, you said so yourself! There's an inherent absence of light that makes evolutionary sense. If explain it, I'll sound ridiculous!" she squeaked. She looked terribly vulnerable, cowering in the bathtub. The things that terrified her continually confused him. Crimes against humanity, bottomless grief, his demons and his relapse, she could handle all of that. But her family, thunderstorms, the notion of hurting him, those things rendered her petrified.

"You're not stupid. You're one of the most courageous people I know." When she protested, he reminded her that staying with someone while they detoxed took guts.

"I'm not that brave," she said. "But you make me want to be."

The next thunderclap seemed to shake the walls, and she glanced anxiously towards the door. "Don't worry, the last tornado in Washington was in 2001, and there hasn't been anything major since 1927."

"So you're saying it's possible." He was doing it again, wasn't he? More times than he cared to count he had attempted to alleviate someone's worries with statistics and only ended up making things worse.

After several seconds of silence, she finally said, "I was nine. I was coming home from school and it was raining. My mom was usually home by then to let me in, but she was out running errands. The front door was locked, and I didn't know the garage code. By that point I was already soaking wet, but then the thunder and lightning began. In school we were learning about electricity, and how lightning strikes could kill you. So I panicked, and I crawled underneath my back porch to hide. I counted the seconds between lightning and thunder, and as it got closer I was sure I was going to get struck by lightning, and my bones would light up like an x-ray, the way they do on cartoons.

"Of course, that didn't happen and the storm just rolled on its way. The rain was finally letting up by the time my mom got home, and she wasn't exactly pleased to see me drenched and covered in mud from under the porch. Turns out she'd left the back door unlocked for me, but I was so scared I didn't even think to check. That week at the school library, I checked out every book I could on thunderstorms until I had thoroughly terrified myself. I didn't want to bother my parents by waking them up during a storm, so I would spend those nights hiding under my bed with a small army of stuffed animals and waiting for it to stop."

It wasn't hard to picture an even smaller version of her, crouched underneath a porch and crying, or wedged underneath her bed with several teddy bears. He wished it were possible to go back in time so he could wrap that scared little girl in a hug, tell her things were going to be okay. But unless he found a TARDIS – or built one himself – it wasn't going to happen, so instead he told her, "That's not ridiculous. Not at all. Anyone would be scared after something like that."

"Yeah, but I should've outgrown that fear by the time I was a teenager! You know there were days in college when I would skip class just because I was afraid to walk across campus during a thunderstorm?"

"It's a valid concern," he said. "There's been several reports of college students being struck by lightning, and your odds of being struck in a given year are approximately 1 in 4,956,460; which is actually more likely than the more common fear of being of being attacked by a shark, which is only about 1 in 11.5 million."

"Not helping, Spencer."

"Sorry." And then, like lightning, an idea struck him. He jogged out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, returning back to Bianca with a pillow and the thick comforter. She was exactly where he had left her, her face buried against her knees and her breathing ragged. The rolls of thunder were becoming louder, and the time between them decreasing. Shutting the door once again, he carried the blanket over the bathtub.

She stared at him, evidently confused. "What are you doing?" she asked.

To answer, he tossed the pillow at her. "I want to sleep with you," he replied plainly. "And if you're going to spend the night in here, then so am I." Without even an ounce of finesse, he clambered into the tub to sit next to her and grabbed the pillow from her hands, propping it up against the tiles on the wall. Reid stretched out, putting his head back on the pillow and bending his knees up to rest his feet on the other end of the bath in some absurd parody of relaxation. Though she was still staring at him, he grabbed for the blanket, draping it over them before pulling the shower curtain closed.

"Go on then." He patted the blanket. "Lay down." Still she gaped at him as though he had suggested they burn all the books in his apartment, or asked her to climb out the living room window.

"You're not serious, are you?" When he only smiled at her, she tentatively slouched into a reclining position and rolled onto her side. Small as she was, there was hardly enough room for them to lay side by side. The hard porcelain of the tub was already making his backside stiff, and he figured it had to be worse that way, the bathtub pressing like stone against her hipbone and shoulder. There was more finagling though as she tried to bend her knees slightly, and bumped his thigh instead. Even then, they were compacted so close together that with every exhale her elbow dug into his side.

There was no way they could sleep like that, cramped as it was. It was however, a momentary distraction from the thunder outside. She didn't jump at the clatter of it, for she was too busy trying to fit next to him. "We can't do this," she said, finally admitting defeat.

He was all too glad to get out of the tub, a task that proved to be slightly more difficult than getting in. Reid bundled the blanket and pillow under his arm and helped her out so her socks wouldn't slip on the slick floor. They stepped out from the bathroom in time with another flash of lightning, and she still seemed apprehensive about continuing down the hall. Gripping her hand, he led her back into his bedroom amidst the noise. Once the he pulled the curtains shut and replaced the blankets on the bed, they climbed back onto the mattress. It was much more comfortable to lay somewhere with enough space for the two of them.

"Let me see your phone," he instructed. Bianca grabbed it from the place the outlet on the wall, where it was charging and handed it to him. He fumbled for a second with the button and the screen before managing to turn on the flashlight function. Setting the phone on its front, he then pulled the covers up over their heads, turning the blankets into a makeshift fort. He'd snagged a book from the shelf during his previous excursion for blankets, in a split second choosing one that he knew she'd read a hundred times; and he set it next to the phone now to read to her.

"What book is that?" she asked.

Bashfully, he held it up. On bad days, he played chess and memorized textbooks, but when he needed cheering up, he could always count on coming back to his favorite books. While he was sure he remembered most of the chapters, this was _her_ favorite and he didn't want to mess it up. " _To Kill a Mockingbird._ I thought it might help take your mind off of things. You've told me plenty of stories this week, so it's my turn to read to you." It was a night, it seemed, for the turning of tables.

Reid began with the epitaph, a Charles Lamb quote, and then moved to the first chapter. " _When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow…_ " Over the worst of the storm he read to her, at times having to raise his voice over the thunder, but she stayed put under the blanket fort. Just as Scout was rubbing Walter Cunningham's nose in the dirt, he felt her hand on his arm.

"Spencer? Can we go back to sleep? I'm kinda tired."

"Of course." She switched off the phone-flashlight, and he pulled the covers back once more to set both the book and his glasses on the table. "You're not frightened?" he whispered.

"I am," she replied. "But you're here. You'll protect me, won't you?"

He couldn't say for sure how much of that question was influenced by her sleepy state of mind, that place where words slipped out by accident, but his heart warmed nonetheless. "Yes. Yes, of course I will." He kissed her forehead. "I'll always protect you." From the storm, from the many things in this life that could inflict harm, from any more heart break. The past few months he'd asked so much of her, and he was determined to spend the rest of his life making it up to her, proving to her that he loved her as deep as the ocean, as constant as gravity.

In the architecture of his heart, there were countless places reserved for her and her alone, and Reid wanted her to know that he would not leave her again. For all her promises to stay, he would vow the same. There was nowhere else he wanted be, no one else who loved him so deeply, so selflessly and unconditionally. He wanted her to bring her fears to him, to hand him her nightmares, her insecurities, the pain her family created and the anxiety food gave her. All of them, he wanted to accept with open arms, to show her that he could be steady in his devotion, enduring nights like this not because he felt obligated to, but because he loved her. He would – he did – love her that much.

There was a distant rumble of thunder, but Bianca didn't flinch this time. Instead, she inched closer to him and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight until she finally fell asleep.

* * *

 _"I'm here. I love you. I don't care if you need to stay up crying all night long, I will stay with you. If you need the medication again, go ahead and take it – I will love you through that, as well. If you don't need the medication, I will love you, too. There's nothing you could ever do to lose my love. I will protect you until you die, and after your death I will still protect you. I am stronger than Depression and I am braver than Loneliness and nothing will ever exhaust me." – Elizabeth Gilbert_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Didn't I tell you there would be plenty of fluff? It only seemed fair to have the tables turn at least once for them. Reid isn't the only one with fears and demons after all. On another note, I'm utterly in love with this Elizabeth Gilbert quote.**

 **Thank you to LadyAmazon, Roseana23, Heartwitch, Haleshmale1989, Sue1313, LaneySoto and NuhHuh94 for following/favoriting this story! At this point there are over 100 of you following it, and I can't believe it! Thanks so incredibly much!**

 **And to my dear reviewers: ahowell1993** (So very close to Season 9! As for conversations about family, I'll just say: 3. That will make sense soon enough), **LadySnowTheStark** (thanks! And yes, I'm not done with them yet!), **toxic click** (haha, I'm glad you liked it!), **sabinadz** (it's something I definitely want to include in the story at some point!), **Itsjustjas** (oh wow, thanks! That's so kind of you to say!), **Love-Fiction-2016** (aw indeed!), **Sue1313** (thanks haha! That's quite the compliment! I like to think that Reid doesn't so much have a physical "type" as a personality "type". I think the women he's fallen for canon-wise have always been intelligent, kind, and generous people, and I wanted to try and stay true to that trend), **diankotori** (it's most certainly the beginning of a fresh start, for both of them. And I agree, I think that he absolutely feels guilty. He's always been so hard on himself, but he definitely deserves his fair share of happiness!), **and Fotostar227** (aw thank you!) **. Thank you so so much. As always I'm so grateful for you, and for your support.**

 **If you've been reading this story, and have the time to follow/favorite/review, it's so very much appreciated!  
Until next chapter, my friends!**


	25. 25) Head and Heart

_"Getting a second life is one thing. Making it a better life, that's the trick." –Rick Riordan_

* * *

After the fall came the return, and while an abundance authors wrote of a fall from grace, he had come to believe that while there was no way to fall gracefully, there were a great many ways to return gracefully. None of them were easy, of course, nothing worthwhile ever was. Thrice had he practiced the art of a homecoming.

The first had been after Tobias, and he isolated himself with his needles and his bottles to forget all of the pain forced upon him. There had been so much shame and so much anger, and he had no idea how to talk about those things with any of his colleagues. The second was after Maeve's death. He still didn't know how to talk about things that hurt or to work through grief, and so he had locked himself in his apartment for two weeks before finally learning it was impossible recover alone. The third was the one he was still working through, and this one was just as difficult. Everyone on the team knew exactly why he had taken a leave of absence, and though he understood they were just glad to have him back, he still felt guilty for what he had put them through.

The first day always was the worst, when everyone was tiptoeing around him and wondering what to say or what to ask him. Hotch could always be counted on to focus on the work, coming straight in and making sure that his team was taking care of business. The unit chief would ask him once – and only once, unless Reid gave him cause for concern – how he was, before leaving the matter alone. He appreciated that. Rossi would say very little, but occasionally glance his way with something like pity in his eyes. Morgan and Alex would welcome him back with open arms, and JJ would play the mother hen, doting on him until she could be certain he was alright. And then there was Garcia, who went out of her way to cheer him up in any manner she could find.

This time the usual sympathies and uncertainties applied, but there was something lighter in the air. Morgan's pat on the back was accompanied with a smug look, JJ asked him about his week, and when Rossi slid a sly smile his way, Reid realized what it was. This was about his relapse, but it was also about _her_. They knew Bianca had stayed with him that week, and he wasn't sure exactly what conclusions they leapt to as a result. Regardless, he tried to shake it off as always, hoping he didn't appear any more awkward than usual. He wasn't planning on revealing that she not only slept at his apartment, but in his bed.

With him.

Eight nights in a row.

No, that was a secret he would much rather keep to himself. It was something for just the two of them to share, those drowsy minutes just before falling asleep and just after waking up, when he thought it had to be a dream to have her so close to him for so long.

Around lunchtime, Garcia strolled over to his desk, a paper sack in her hand. "Welcome back, Junior Einstein. We missed you."

"It's good to be back," he replied. "I missed you guys, too."

The blonde woman raised her eyebrows. "Oh, really? You sure about that?" Reid frowned, glancing around to see if there was something he wasn't getting. Did she really think he could be away for two weeks and not want to see them?

"Of course I did. Why wouldn't I? You're my family."

"Aw!" She swatted his shoulder. "Thanks, Reid. But I was starting to think maybe you were a little _too_ comfortable at home. What with your lady friend staying there and all."

He felt his ears burn red and he was glad it was Garcia in front of him, who wouldn't be able to profile his overcorrection as he clenched his fist and tightened his jaw in an effort to seem calm. "It wasn't like that!" he said, his voice cracking and giving him away. "She just stayed to help me through withdrawal. We watched old movies, and she slept on my sofa." And technically she had, for six of those nights anyways.

"You made her sleep on the couch? I thought you were a gentleman!" Penelope was aghast.

"I – what – but she insisted on that and –"

"Relax, boy genius. I'm only teasing you. I have two weeks worth of catching up to do." Garcia opened the paper sack, setting a chocolate cupcake with mound of icing on his desk. "I really am glad you're okay. I thought you might like a welcome-back-present."

Reid thanked her, and she shrugged it off with a smile. It was nice to feel wanted, to feel absolved of his mistakes. The BAU was always a constant in his life, there for him through the very best and the very worst of all his years. It was a universal truth in his world, that no matter what his team would support him, and he would do the same for them. That same evening, they were called to a case in Massachusetts. Falling back into a steady routine, that was easy. Sitting in the bullpen, flipping through a case file, grabbing his go-bag. In an effort to win his colleagues over again, he even balanced five cups of fresh coffee in his arms as climbed into the jet, one for each of them, ordered exactly the way they liked. There was a chorus of thank you's, and he sat down feeling a little more at peace.

"You didn't have to do that, kid," Morgan said. "There's nothing you need to apologize for."

"I know," he replied. "I wanted to though. If it's not an apology, think of it as a token of appreciation. I'm lucky to have you all in my life. And… I especially wanted to say thanks to you. For going to my apartment that night."

"Don't mention it."

It all felt right, taking off and reviewing the case, landing and settling in with the local officers at the station, and finally heading to a hotel to get some rest before the long day of work began in the morning. It _was_ good to be back. At the same time, he felt a little lonely in a bed that seemed strangely empty without someone to share it with. For the first time in eight days, he fell asleep without her in his arms.

* * *

The phone on her nightstand woke her up. Had it been anyone else, she would have rolled over and gone back to sleep, but not for him. "Spencer?" she mumbled. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh, hey! Did I wake you up? I'm so sorry, I didn't think you would answer. I was just going to leave a message that's all…"

"It's okay. What's going on?" The clock nearby said it was just past midnight.

"Nothing really, I just wanted you to know I'm home. We landed about an hour ago. This case took a little longer than we expected." There was something in his voice, a trace of weariness that wasn't quite attributable to this late hour.

Bianca sat up, pulling the blankets closer to her chin. "Did something happen? You sound a little shook up."

The other end of the line was silent for a few moments, before he finally said, "Sort of. We've seen worse, but the outcome just wasn't… wasn't what we were hoping for."

"Listen, I'm going to be honest. I'm really tired right now, and I don't think I can keep up with a discussion."

"No, of course, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called so la-"

"Hey," she interrupted. "You didn't let me finish. I want to talk to you, just not right now. We both need sleep. How about breakfast? Tomorrow morning?" He began to protest, saying that he had to be at the office by 9 AM. "Yeah, and I've got class at 8. It takes you about an hour to get to Quantico on the metro, so if we meet at 6:30, that gives us an hour and a half to catch up."

Finally he conceded, on the grounds that they choose someplace with very strong coffee. In the early autumn chill, just as the sun was making its way over the horizon, she made her way across the city to a sleepy café. Spencer was slumped in a booth, stirring sugar into his coffee cup with the lazy circles of a small spoon. When he saw her, his expression immediately changed, perking up instantly as she slid in across from him.

It was impossible not to be reminded of mornings spent together at his kitchen table, not all that long ago. Human beings fell into routines so easily, and it now felt odd to wake up to an empty apartment, to eat breakfast without him. His presence seemed to saturate every corner of her life, their worlds overlapping so entirely. It was a happy overlap; happy, the way she felt as he told her about his latest case and she watched his smile slowly return to full strength.

"In the end, Rossi had to shoot the unsub. The woman was holding hostage made it out alive, but I don't know if she's going to ever really recover. Sometimes I wish it was easier for us to reach out to the victims after the arrest. Make sure they're doing okay." He looked up from the plate of waffles he'd been working away at as he talked. "Thanks again, for meeting me."

"You've been gone four days. I wanted to see you," she replied. "You know, I'm sure if you asked, Penelope could let you know how that woman is doing."

"There's not much Garcia can't do," he laughed. Those two were remarkably similar in their work ethic and brilliance, but her domain was the technological world, while he preferred paper and longhand. Despite their differences, they always looked out for each other. All of the BAU did. "What about you? Is everything okay with your classes?"

Happy, the way she felt when he took the time to check in on her. "A little more stressful than last semester, but nothing I can't handle. It's going to be worth it when I finally get that law degree."

Spencer raised an eyebrow. "You know, there's disagreement in the academic community as to whether lawyers should be counted as PhD students or not. After all, Hotch is a lawyer, and nobody calls him _doctor_."

"Yes, but you're not dating Hotch." Bianca reached across the table to steal a bit of waffle, a gesture he allowed with a grin. "Maybe I'll just go and get another degree after this. That could be our thing, accumulating PhDs together. Like this could be a thing."

"This?"

"Breakfast," she clarified. There never seemed to be enough time with him. To talk with him or to love him. The more time they had, the more time she wanted. "When you've been away for a while, it's nice to catch up face to face. We could just have breakfast together. Coffee included."

Happy, the way that _he_ felt when she wanted to be close to him. It was a few weeks later when he arrived to the office late, garnering a few curious glances.

Morgan sauntered over to him. "Pretty Boy, it's not like you to show up late."

"Sorry, I was out for breakfast," he said, throwing his bag down on his desk.

"Breakfast? With the little lady?"

Reid shook his head, amused at the diminutive. "Mmmhmm. It's… a thing." Breakfast worked well, a chance for both of them to meet before their work began, a few hours in a fairly empty restaurant or café, a corner of the universe to themselves as the rest of the city began to wake up. Breakfast was her favorite meal, the one she was least likely to skip, especially now that it gave them a reason to spend the morning together. "Bianca says it's important to start every day with something good."

"So you're her good thing?" asked Morgan. Reid froze, a file in his hand halfway opened. He hadn't considered that angle before. Of course his favorite way to start a day was sitting across from her while she flashed him a smile, the kind that shook his inhibitions and reached straight through to his heart. With stars in her eyes and a hand to hold while they drank coffee – one cup with too much vanilla, one with too much sugar.

Happy, the way he felt when someone else could see it, what they felt for each other. Happy. The way he felt whenever she was on his mind.

"I guess so," he said, moreso to himself than to Morgan.

* * *

He was sitting in the lobby of an Arizona hotel with Alex, nursing a cup of coffee after dinner. The team was taking advantage of a few hours of free time; JJ and Hotch were calling their respective families, and Morgan was out at a bar Rossi. Typically Reid would spend his time reading in his room alone, but he enjoyed spending time with Alex. Of all the people he worked with she understood him best, and for that he was grateful. It was nice to have somebody who wanted to talk about things like linguistics, who did crossword puzzles with him, who knew just as many random facts as he did.

"I've been meaning to ask, when did you cut your hair that way?" Blake gestured towards him, and he felt his hand move towards the back of his neck self-consciously, where he'd buzzed off a portion of his brown curls.

"Thursday," he answered. "After everything that happened last month, I was looking to make a few changes. Though I think I should've given Bianca a heads-up." When he'd gone to see that evening, her mouth had fallen open. For nearly a whole minute she tried to come up with something to say, and he was worried she didn't like it. Later she explained it wasn't that, it was just such a departure from his previous haircuts ("It was just starting to get long again," she'd lamented). He'd never worn it quite like that, the back and sides shaved short, his bangs long, but hair was one of the easiest things to change; he wanted everything about this year to feel far removed from the last. Eventually she came around, just as she had the last time he cut it.

Alex nodded. "I'll bet she more than little was surprised. How is she, by the way? I don't think I've ever had the chance to really discuss her with you." They'd talked about Maeve at length a few months ago, but since her return Bianca hadn't been introduced to Blake, not counting the day after his overdose.

"She's good. Thanks for asking. And you're right – I don't think I've really told you about her before." Where was he supposed to begin? Finding her again had been a rediscovery, realizing that the map of his heart was marked by all the bridges he thought had burned, every last one of them leading back to her. The rest of the team knew their history, had been with Reid when he first met her.

"She was living in New York when we met. Bianca was working for the UN, and we were consulting on a human rights case there. I'd never really met someone like her before. She was thoughtful, passionate, optimistic. She wrote poetry and talked with her hands and knew everything about Eleanor Roosevelt. When we closed the case, I thought I wouldn't see her again, but one thing led to another and then she was moving to DC and we were together. When I started getting headaches though, I sort of broke things off."

"Ah, now that I know. Garcia filled me in," she added, upon seeing the perplexed expression on his face.

It was a little disconcerting to learn that Alex was familiar with the part of the story he most regretted. "I guess you know the rest then. She came back to the District, and when I needed someone to talk to, she was always there. No questions asked. Bianca listened to me after Maeve died, and even though she was so scared, she came to find me when I was using again..." He swallowed, recalling the night she found him unconscious in his apartment, the look of terror on her face when he came to.

"She even stayed with me through withdrawal. None of those things were easy for her, but she did them. I don't think there's another person on the planet who's that kind."

"You are," Blake said plainly.

He blinked, startled by her honesty. "You really mean that?"

She gazed softly at him. "Sure I do. It's why you two work so well. You both put other people first." Alex reminded him of all the times he'd checked in on the other members of the team, the advice he gave her about James, his general aversion to hindering someone else with his problems.

"I just… I always feel like she's the one giving all the time, and I'm just taking. I keep messing things up between us."

"That's not true. And if you asked her, I bet she'd say the same thing. You're being too hard on yourself, Reid. I don't have to work at the BAU to see you're crazy about her, and she clearly loves you more than anything." Alex spoke candidly, but with an air of authority. That was fair, he supposed, since she was the one of the only two members of the unit who were currently married.

Reid was hesitant to let himself believe her words, to think it was that simple. He knew what his own feelings were, and he certainly hoped she reciprocated them. But then, if she didn't, why would she have stayed? Why would she always think the best of him, trust him and want to spend her days with him? There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to spend all of his with her.

"Bianca means everything to me," he found himself saying. Only a few months ago, admitting that would have left him feeling guilty, but he was surprised to find that he meant it. There was no way to bring Maeve back, but Bianca chose to stay time after time. He had fallen madly in love with Maeve's mind, but with Bianca the first thing about her that he'd loved was her _heart_. When he was with her, he was better. _She_ made him want to be better.

"I know." Alex patted his hand, a knowing smile on her face. "And so does she." He tried to let her know every chance he got. When he was away, he called each night to tell her he loved her, and when he came back late at night they met the next morning for breakfast, no matter how early they had to wake up to do so. At the library he was always on the lookout for poetry books she might enjoy, and when thunderstorms rolled in over DC, he was there for her. Sometimes he would make his way to her apartment in the downpour; other times she would call him late at night and they would talk until the lightning subsided.

"Who knows what?" JJ came around the corner, a bag of Cheetos in one hand, her phone call to Will and Henry evidently over.

Close as he was with JJ, he didn't exactly want to rehash the topic again. It was difficult enough explaining it Alex. Instead, he said, " _You_ know that I'm sorry. Uh, for snapping at you earlier about the whole kids thing."

"Don't worry about it Spence. I'm not mad at you or anything. I just don't want you to feel like all the good things are behind you. You can still do them." That earned another astute nod from Blake, and he knew that whatever was still to come, he didn't have to face it alone. There were six people who counted him as part of their family – seven, including Emily, all the way in London. And there was someone who loved him immensely, who was waiting for him to come home safely. Someone who he could share a future with, who he could share every good thing with.

* * *

Penelope had once joked with her that the BAU could play just as hard as they worked. It certainly seemed to hold true tonight, one of the rare nights that the agents gathered with their significant others to celebrate something good. Something so much more than good, in her opinion. Not a thing, but a person. Her person. It was his thirty-second birthday, and they'd gone out for drinks after work. Though Spencer himself was sticking to strictly non-alcoholic beverages, everyone was having a good time. Morgan's new girlfriend had been called in to the hospital and unable to join them, but Will came along with JJ, and Garcia brought Sam.

There had been dancing and shots and plenty of wild stories about the things that happened in the field, the laughable sort rather than the horrifying sort. The infamous prank war, the time Rossi made Spencer climb down a ditch just to preserve his leather shoes, when Garcia accidently answered the phone with " _talk dirty to me"_ only to discover she was speaking to Strauss, not Morgan.

It had given the ladies of the Bureau a chance to meet Garcia's boyfriend, who earned the stamp of approval, though JJ promised that should things turn south, she would be there with a pint of Ben and Jerry's. "Cherry Garcia sound good?" Jennifer asked.

"While I appreciate my namesake flavor, I've found that Brownie Batter heals a heart faster," mused Penelope. She turned to Bianca. "What do you think?"

"I couldn't say. I've never been a 'breakup and eat a pint of ice cream' sort of girl."

It was then that Spencer came up behind her. "No, of course not," he laughed. "You're the kind who writes a book about it instead." She blushed furiously, not realizing he'd been standing there. In the dull cacophony of bar background noise, he had to lean in close to whisper in her ear, adding, "But that's my kind of girl." Her face felt practically scarlet at that point, but he enveloped her in an embrace, letting his hands wander to the small of her back. For a minute the rest of the bar faded out as she trained her focus on the smell of his shirt, the feeling of his arms around her. For a minute, it seemed he was content to tune everything out, grateful for the imitation of a more intimate setting and the nearness of him.

It didn't last though, as Morgan came to pull him towards Hotch and Rossi. Spencer was starting to look a little worn out from all the social interaction, but it was good for him to spend time out with everyone. Behind the weariness in his eyes, there was still happiness, and a smile that he couldn't manage to shake. If anyone deserved a night of unbridled happiness, it was him.

Eventually, Rossi called them all over around a single table, where they gathered with drinks balanced in their hands. "Now that we've all had time to drink and be merry, I'd like to propose a toast. Reid, we're all here for you today. It's been a hell of a year, but here's to this year being better than the last."

Spencer glanced around at the congregation of friends,

"To the smartest kid I've ever met," Rossi began, raising a shot of scotch.

One by one they went around: Hotch, JJ, Garcia with various cocktails.

"To a valuable friend and admirable colleague."

"To a good partner, a great godfather, and our favorite genius."

"To my favorite Doctor – except for maybe Matt Smith."

Sam, shifting a little uncertainly beside Garcia. "I don't know you that well, but here's to you. From what Penelope tells me, you're a great guy."

Morgan, Will, and Alex with a bottle of beer.

"To the prettiest boy I know. I'm always here for you."

"To the only person I've met who can hold three PhDs and still be a good babysitter."

"To someone who leads with his head and lives with his heart."

When it was her turn, she met his eyes, her heart warming at the sight of him, utterly happy. "To the person I love most in this world."

Rossi raised his scotch in the air. "To Spencer."

"To Spencer," they echoed, voices punctuated with the sound of clinking glass. Those two syllables identifying the person she so adored, repeated in unison. There was a hint of pride she felt, as all of these people celebrated him and laughed with him, that this man was the one she loved. That his life had managed to touch so many. That somehow, she'd managed to end up by his side. And when he grinned at her from across the room, she marveled at the fact that he'd chosen her as well.

When the evening rolled towards night, the sky outside the bar long since dark, the team slowly began to trickle out the door, and eventually she slipped out to the parking lot with him. The change in volume, from rambunctious bar to softly echoing streets was jarring at first, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the shift in light. One constant in life was Spencer's car, the old blue Volvo looking a little out of place in the 21st century. An anachronism, much like the rest of his possessions, and perhaps Spencer himself.

As they drove, he kept one hand on the wheel and one hand on hers. "Thirty-two," he mused. "I'm starting to feel old."

"Ah, but you're dating someone in their twenties. That should make you feel young."

"Yeah, that five year age difference really does it," he joked. In the earliest stages of their relationship, they'd both been a little hesitant because of those one-thousand-eight-hundred or so days between them. It seemed so insignificant a thing now, five years.

" _Les amoureux fervents et les savants austères, aiment également, dans leur mûre saison,_ " she quoted. Both ardent lovers and austere scholars love in their mature season. It was a line from Baudelaire's sonnet _Les Chats_.

Spencer glanced over at her, a smirk on his face. "You know how I love it when you speak French. And French poetry?" Rewarded with his hand over hers, gliding up and down her forearm, she told herself to study up on French poems just for that purpose. Beneath the cover of the star-sprinkled sky, they strolled from the car to his building, his arm around her waist like the most natural thing in the world.

"I've got something for you," she said, leading him up the stairs. It had taken some planning to pull it off, but she had no doubts it was worth it. Bianca instructed him to sit in at the table, eyes closed while she tried to open cabinets and drawers as quickly as possible. The most difficult part was striking a match and putting it out without raising suspicion, but if he knew what was going on, she couldn't tell. "Open your eyes."

As soon as he did, they widened in obvious surprise. Before him was a small cake, decorated with chocolate frosting and rainbow sprinkles. A single candle illuminated the table in a dim glow. "You made this? When?"

"A magician never reveals her secrets," she laughed. In truth it had involved using her spare key to sneak in when he was at work, storing it in the back of the fridge, and hiding the evidence before he came home. "Go on then. Make a wish."

Without hesitation, he replied, "I don't need to. I've got a job I love, a family who cares about me, and the girl I love. What more could I wish for?" Nevertheless, he blew out the candle, and carefully cut a small slice away from it. When he asked for a larger piece, she explained that piece was for her – the rest of the cake was for him and his unconquerable sweet tooth; hence the small size of the dessert.

Bars weren't exactly his scene, though he would go anywhere to be with his team and his friends. Even so, she wanted to give him something quieter, more relaxed. He felt more comfortable in small groups, intimate settings. And selfish as it may have been, she wanted a moment alone with him, to celebrate with just the two of them. There had been a time when she wasn't sure she would get to celebrate another year with him.

Thirty-two years he'd been on this earth, learning and growing and living and saving the lives of others. A small fraction of that time she'd known him, four meager years – and yet those four years felt like a lifetime. This was the first time she'd had the opportunity to commemorate the day of his birth, to say simply that she was glad he existed, glad he'd survived another trip around the sun.

"This is perfect," he sighed.

It was unclear whether he was referring to the moment itself, or merely to the cake, but she was happy to hear that regardless. "You're not the only one capable of profiling, you know. I've learned a few things in four years." A few things. Everything. All the things that mattered and him who he was. All the reasons she loved him. Just when she thought it wasn't possible to fall even deeper, he would do something that pulled her in just a little more, made it all but impossible to climb out of that rabbit hole. Not that she minded. To love him was wonderful, cherishing every Cheshire Cat grin and dreamlike day he gave her.

"It's been a good four years." Nostalgia danced in his eyes, reminiscent of candlelight.

Four years that weren't without their troubles and frustrations, but four years she wouldn't have traded for all the universe. "I'm so happy you were born," she murmured. "And I'm so happy to have met you. I can't possibly imagine my life without you in it. I just want you to know how much you mean to me. How much you've changed me. How grateful I am for all of that." Their time together taught her patience and strength, he made her more courageous and more confident, and somehow she felt more like herself around him. It was as though there were parts of yourself you couldn't discover on your own. It took the observant eye of another to show you just what you were capable of.

Though he'd assured her there was nothing he needed, Bianca had been meeting with Tanvi, one of her classmates, to knit a scarf for him. It had taken longer than expected, and she still had a few feet to go. A poem would've been faster, but it seemed almost redundant to write him something after having published an entire anthology about him. After explaining his gift would be a few days late, she said, "I still want to give you something tonight, though. Is there anything you can think of?"

Spencer considered the inquiry for a moment. "To kiss you," he answered.

"You're supposed to ask for something _you_ want," she giggled.

"It is what I want." Taking her hand, he helped her up from the kitchen chair. "This is the first time I've been able to spend my birthday with you. That's the perfect present." The words rang with sincerity, and she knew that he'd wanted to have her there with him just as much as she'd wanted the chance to celebrate with him.

"Well, in that case…" She stood on her toes to capture his mouth in a slow kiss, as his arms enveloped her in an embrace. "Happy birthday, my love."

Once upon a time in New York City, he made her a promise for her birthday. And there, over two hundred miles away from the place they first met, she made a silent vow to herself – and to him. This was the first time she had celebrated his birthday with him. But it wouldn't be the last.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **(Edit): I just realized I accidentally posted Chapter 26 and not Chapter 25 earlier today, and so I've replaced that with the proper chapter! So if you've read the last update, you've actually read the next chapter haha!**

 **Firstly, I want to apologize for the delay in posting this chapter! The real world takes priority, and I've been busier than I have been in months. It's a good sort of busy, for the most part, though. However, it means I don't always have the time to write/edit/brainstorm/reread as much as I'd prefer before putting a new chapter up. This one's a bit longer though, so hopefully that helps a bit?  
Thank you for being the best readers ever!  
**

 **Thank you to livesinasong13, XxAtousa1996xX, reverie-scriptor, Malou1, mizzmuzz, gossamermouse101, Etherealized, Spundygirl, SuperWhoLockgirl222, cuttiepiepay, makas soul, SHINKASHIRAYUKI, roryandamy, and Hanna Paul for following/favoriting this story!**

 **And of course, thank you to my beloved reviewers: ahowell1993** (oh goodness, she would've been a nervous wreck haha!), **dianakotori** (thanks! I absolutely believe it's important for a relationship to be balanced. They're both vulnerable people with ghosts in their pasts, but they make each other better), **Sue1313** (a very good point!), **Love-Fiction-2016** (no, not yet! That's going to be a plot point soon enough though. For the time being, I think they've finally become comfortable in their relationship again). **I'm always so grateful to you and the messages you leave me.**


	26. 26) A White Wedding

The floorboards of the ancient building squeaked beneath his shoes as he made his way down the hall. The door of Apartment 702 had become familiar over the last few months, and spotting the numbers signifying it from the rest of the unit was enough to make him smile, knowing who was waiting for him beyond that door. Once he knocked, it opened almost immediately. "There you are! Come in, you must be freezing!" Bianca ushered him inside, her living room far warmer than the hallway, and much more so than the air outside where snow was falling lightly.

It smelled nice, like hazelnut coffee and fresh baked bread – she must've been cooking – and lavender. Just like her perfume. "Do you have those papers?" Reid asked, draping his peacoat over the back of a chair.

"I sure do! They're in my room." Her footsteps echoed in the apartment, and she returned to the living room moments later with a file folder in her hand. "It wasn't easy, but I found everything I could. What's this for anyways?" Bianca leaned against the kitchen counter as he rifled through the pages of the file.

Inside were several reports regarding human rights violations in Iraq and Afghanistan. Information about torture methods used by interrogators, crimes against children, child soldiers, and guerilla tactics. After JJ's abduction, he'd worried that something was still bothering her. It was difficult to say precisely what she couldn't let go of, but he wasn't able to forget it either. Reid figured it would be possible for Emily and Garcia to track down extensive information on Tivon Askari, but he was hesitant to involve them just yet. JJ didn't need more people asking her if she was okay. Right now she just needed space to breathe, and to recover. Bianca however, could easily do a little digging into crimes against humanity that matched Askari's MO or occurred in the same region. He could also trust her not to mention anything to the rest of the team.

"I know it's a little premature, but I wanted to know a little more about the man who hurt JJ. Just to see if I could put a better profile of him together. There's still so much about that year she spent in Afghanistan that I don't understand."

"I see. You're really worried about her aren't you?" JJ was his friend, a vital part of his family. It was impossible for him to overlook something that might be hurting her. When it came to the people he cared about, he couldn't rest until he knew they were okay. "You know, you look a little tired," she added. "Have you had dinner yet?"

He hadn't, and was all too happy to accept her offer of food. "What are all these books?" Reid asked, as she gathered things in the kitchen. The living room coffee table was covered in stacks of textbooks, notebooks, and papers.

"I've got finals next week, so I'm trying to study," she said, reappearing with two bowls of minestrone soup and French bread, both still warm. Bianca took a seat beside him on the couch, sighing. "There's so much material this semester. It's taking longer than I expected. Sorry for the mess."

The mess never bothered him; it reminded him that this space was lived in. He picked up one of the textbooks, thumbing through it. "You know, I can read 20,000 words per minute and I have an eidetic memory."

"I'm aware of that. Why do you mention it?"

"I'm just saying I would make a pretty good study partner. I could review all this in about 20 minutes, and quiz you on it."

"You'd do that?"

"Of course," he said. "You helped me gather all this information, it's more than fair for me to lend a hand with this. Not that I need a reason." He kissed the top of her forehead. "I want to help you whenever I can."

When they were done, she began dividing the books into stacks. Each title earned itself a furtive glance, and then was set methodically into place . They were separated by course, she explained. The first pile was for Comparative Law on Women's Rights; the second, International Courts and Tribunals; the third, War Crimes and Prosecution; the fourth, Poverty Law and Policy; and the fifth, Gender, Sexual, and Reproductive Health and International Human Rights Law. Reid quirked an eyebrow, examining the impressive distribution of material, and grabbed the nearest textbook. It took only a few seconds to become accustomed to the legalese, after which reading become easier. Between the turning of pages he was vaguely aware of Bianca moving around the apartment.

Sixteen minutes and seven seconds later, he closed the last book just as something dropped onto his shoulders. A soft fleece blanket, dark blue in color. Next to him, Bianca sat down with a second one. "If I had some wood, I'd get the fireplace going, but I figured this would be warm enough. All finished?"

"I am. Is there a particular topic you want to start with?" he asked.

"Surprise me."

"Okay then…" In his mind, Reid flipped through the notes and the pages he'd examined, the words clear in his memory. "Courts and Tribunals. What document established the International Criminal Court, and outlined its relationship with the United Nations?"

Bianca looked down, her eyes narrowed in thought. "The Rome Statue in 1998."

"Correct." He didn't even need to check the answer, he knew she was right.

Together they traversed the subject matter, covering as many questions as possible. There was a great deal of case studies, references to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and legal jargon. From one course to another his questions jumped, preventing her from getting too comfortable with a particular area. To her relief, she was able to answer almost all of them correctly, and the ones she struggled with he would drill her on until she managed to get the right answer.

"For the final question, the case of Jean-Paul Akayesu. Name the court that handled the case, which population he victimized, and what legal precedent the case set."

"Akayesu," she began. It was easy to tell when she was concentrating from the expressions she made. Reid couldn't help but it find it cute, the way she would close her eyes and bite her lip, her hands clasped together, the picture of determination. "He was from Rwanda, so his case would've been handled by the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda. He was a participant in the Rwandan Genocide, therefore the victimized population was the Tutsis. And the precedent…"

"Five, four three-"

"Acts of genocide!" she exclaimed. "Akayesu's case set the legal precedent that mass rape committed as part of a genocidal campaign also fell under the definition of genocide, since the crimes were coupled with an intent to harm and to kill."

He pushed the stacks of textbooks aside, freeing up a little space on her coffee table. "Well, in my expert opinion, you should have no trouble with your exams."

"Thanks for helping me study," Bianca said. "It would've taken way longer on my own." Using his skills for something like this, rather than memorizing crime scenes, was far less soul-sucking. In the midst of a menagerie of maddening cases, the hours spent with her helped to remind him that not everything in the world was about serial crimes. She kept him sane. He could count on her to keep him grounded in the present.

Wanting to anchor his thoughts to that apartment, rather than whatever the file on Tivon Askari held, or what monstrous unsub next awaited his team, Reid reached for her hand, only to be surprised at the touch. "B, your hands are like ice. Are you still cold?" The shiver that ran through her answered the question, and he started to pull the blanket from his shoulders for her.

Bianca shook her head. "I have a better idea." Rather than taking the blanket from him, she climbed into his lap, huddled against him. _He_ certainly felt warmer now, though it was entirely possible that simply a result of proximity and contact and not necessarily any change in temperature. To hold her in his arms was a feeling that never grew old. "Hey," she said softly. "Is JJ going to be okay?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "She's been through a lot, and I'm not sure what she needs right now. But we're family. I have to try." The world could be such a violent and brutal place, stamping out the people who still fought to find the beauty in it. Snow fell outside, coating the ground in white, and Reid wished he could have more days like this – curled up in a warm room, sharing a blanket with the person he loved most, all of the monsters far away from somewhere so secure, so cozy.

"You're a good friend. If anyone knows what it's like to face a trauma, it's you. She's going to need someone who understands, and who can empathize. And you're so good at that." True, he'd been in just about every possible situation since he'd started that job. Afflictions of the physical and the emotional variety, things lost and things broken over the last nine years. All of which left him with scars that ran deep through all parts of his world. The last thing he wanted was for Askari's torture to take its toll on JJ's personal life.

Wrapped beneath the blanket, Bianca ran a hand over his chest, nuzzling against his neck. The feeling captured his attention, and he rubbed her shoulder in an attempt to keep her warm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you." Tonight was supposed to be relaxing, a chance for the both of them to escape their duties for a few minutes. Instead he was dredging up fears and dragging down the mood.

"It's okay," she assured him. "You say whatever you need to say. You care about these people, and so do I. If you need to talk, I'm here to listen. As long as I get to spend time with you, I'm happy."

There were many things he wanted to be good at – a good agent, a good scholar, a good son, and a good friend. Being a good study partner came easy, but being a good boyfriend took continual practice. Never did he want to overlook her kindness or forget to appreciate her patience. Reid dropped his hand to her thigh, pulling her as close as he could. "I want to listen to you, too. Tell me what's going on in your life. About law school, or classmates, or the last book you read, or whatever else is on your mind. I don't have to get home for another hour." Even then, it was so comfortable in that room, he was tempted to stay much longer. "So until then, I'm yours."

She laughed softly, a sound warm enough to melt the snow piling up on the sidewalks. "And after that?"

"Well, after that, I'll catch the metro back to my place. But I'll still be yours. Always."

* * *

There were several habits of Spencer's that she found unusual, one of which was the thirty-eight subscriptions he held to various small-town newspapers across the country. Everything from _The Big Bend Sentinel_ in Texas to _The Nome Nugget_ in Alaska to _The Caramel Pine Cone_ in California. To her surprise though, it wasn't Spencer who showed her an article from the _Olentangy Valley News_ , but Ivy. The barista held her phone out over the counter to Bianca. "This is where you said you were from right? Have you read the story yet?"

From Ivy's hand she took the phone, scrolling down the digital article.

" _Since last Sunday, two young women have been reported missing from around the Columbus area. The first was twenty-three year old Lana Jefferson, a student at the Mount Carmel College of Nursing last seen outside her apartment. The second was Olentangy High School senior Deb Cortez. The seventeen-year old was visiting her older brother Tomas at the Ohio State campus. Currently the police say there is no reason to believe the two abductions are linked – if indeed both women were abducted."_

"How did you find this?" Bianca asked, handing the device back. Ivy slipped it into the pocket of her apron and returned to measuring out small bags of coffee beans.

"Saw it on the news this morning. I thought you said you from Columbus, so I figured maybe you might be interested. It didn't take too much digging to find. Second result on Google right now."

Interested wasn't necessarily the most fitting word. Anxious, uncomfortable, those were more suited to the situation. How had she not heard about that? It might've had to do with the fact that she purposefully avoided any reminder about childhood, and that included news. "Do you think it's a serial killer?" Ivy asked.

"I don't know." Three words capable of temporarily deflecting her fears.

But the barista wouldn't be so easily satiated. "Doesn't your boyfriend work for the FBI?"

"Spencer hasn't been called out there on a case, at least not yet." Despite the sense of dread trickling into her thoughts, she didn't want him and the BAU heading to her hometown.

"You okay?" Ivy set a half-full bag of beans to the side. "You look a little shaken up."

Bianca stared down at her tea. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just a little… close to home, that's all. I went to Olentangy High School."

Ivy's eyes widened. "Whoa. No shit. Did you know that girl?"

She shook her head. "No, she's too young. When I graduated, she would've only been ten years old." There was something about the name that was familiar though. _Cortez._ Did she know a Cortez? Bianca pulled out own her cell phone, quickly pulling up the digital edition of the _Olentangy Valley News,_ and skimming through it.

The brother's name was Tomas. It took her a few minutes to place it, but when she did the small seed of dread burst into bloom, taking root like a weed. "Her brother though, I know him."

"How?"

"He played baseball with my brother." While Bianca trusted Spencer to let her know if they took a case in Columbus, that faith did not extend to Rick and his ability to stay out of trouble. Her younger brother had a habit of turning even the best of things into the stuff of nightmares. When she mentioned the possible abductions to Spencer later that evening, he assured that the BAU hadn't been asked to consult. If anything were to happen, she would be the first person he told.

And still, she couldn't shake the feeling that a few hundred miles away, something wasn't quite right.

* * *

The invitation arrived on elegant white stationary, with two international postmarks. On one said, in curling black print it read: _Together with their families, Aoibhegréine Dyfodwg and Lorenzo Forte request your presence at the celebration of their marriage on Saturday the fifteenth of February, at seven o'clock in the evening at the cathedral of Santa Anastasia in Verona, Italy._

On the other side, in scrawled red pen: _Can't wait to see you, bichette. Half the cost of the ticket here is my treat, provided you'll be one of my bridesmaids. Come two days early and bring that man of yours with you. All my love. XOX Eva Green._

For two months she had been planning and preparing, ensuring that weekend would be free. She would miss only one class and her current work involved only writing a few grant essays to fund the nonprofit and sponsor refugees. Bianca was thrilled to finally see her friend again, especially in a new city. Given their close friendship in The Hague, Bianca knew the invitation would be coming, but hadn't expected to be invited as a bridesmaid. That necessitated a week of frantic shopping, trying to find something to match the shade of pale pink Eva had emailed her. Eventually one was procured, and Spencer thought he could get a day off to go with her for the long weekend.

As the date drew closer, she packed her suitcase and finished her gift to the couple. Spencer assured her that he was ready as well, and she was delighted at the thought of traveling with him. There were still so many little things they hadn't had the opportunity to share, and taking a vacation together was one of them. Everything was in order until that Wednesday morning, when he called her from Quantico. There was a case, he explained. Several young women killed in Pittsburgh, with a very short cooling-off period. He had no choice but to go.

Spencer sounded genuinely crestfallen, and she assured him that she understood, that it was fine, and asked only that he come home safely.

"You too," he said. "I'll see you soon. I love you."

"I love you. Be careful." She set off that evening to the airport alone. On her own she stood through security, waited at the gate, and boarded the plane, the seat beside her painfully empty. Below, the city faded to pinpoints of light that eventually gave way to the blackness of the Atlantic. Bianca set the thin airplane pillow against the window and stretched out over the seat her "plus one" was supposed to be presently occupying. With the fleeting warmth of the flimsy complimentary blanket, she succumbed to sleep, wishing he was there.

It was late morning in Italy when she landed, taking a cab to the designated hotel as Eva had instructed. Rolling her suitcase into the lobby, she heard the sound of running footsteps.

"Bianca, _ma bichette_! _Je te manqué!_ " Eva practically tackled her in a hug, and it struck her as amusing that her friend, poised and mature as she acted at work, was still so childlike.

" _Je te manqué, aussi. Tout est bien?_ "

Eva released her. "English, English. I've got too much going on to translate! But, yes, all is good. All is _great_ , especially now tha' you're here. It's been too long." Her bright eyes darted towards the door, and a crease of confusion appeared between her thick eyebrows. "Where is he?"

"He?"

"Your boyfriend?"

Oh, that he. "Spencer got called in to work. His hands were tied. But he really did want to meet you. I'm sorry."

"No, don't be sorry! I'm sorry. I was so looking forward to seeing him in person after I've heard so much about him." In their emails to each other, Bianca kept her friend up-to-date with her love life in order to put an end to the constant question of " _are you over him yet_?" There was nothing to be over now, for miraculously they were together again. Naturally, she left out a few key details – exactly what had happened with Maeve, his addiction, his relapse. It was a strictly need-to-know basis, and all she really needed to know was that Spencer had lost someone he loved, and they had worked through it together, and they were still together.

Aoibhegréine promised to take her mind off of his absence and led her to her room. Thursday was a whirlwind of introductions and polysyllabic names, as well as their respective nicknames. All eight siblings, Mr. and Mrs. Dyfodwg, distant aunts and other relations, friends from uni and friends from work. Bianca was grateful to see a familiar face when Lorenzo popped out from one of the rooms in their hallway.

" _Ciao,_ Bianca! I see you made it here in one piece." Lorenzo grinned at her. He was tan-skinned, with curly black hair and eyes that were almost black. The last time she had seen him, he had sported a thick goatee, and it was strange to see him so clean-shaven (his mother's insistence, he later explained).

"Very much so in one piece," Bianca replied. "Spencer couldn't make it."

"Oh, no. I suppose that means you two will have to come visit Eva and I some other time. What a _shame_ , you'll have to fly all the way to this dump of a city." His voice dripped sarcasm, and he gave her a kiss on each cheek. "But it's good to see you again. Eva's very happy you could make it."

"I wouldn't miss this. I'm counting on her only getting married once," she laughed.

"You and me both," Lorenzo agreed.

For all the distance, Verona was worth the trip. It was an old city, with red-tile-roofed buildings and painted bricks. The Adige River ran through it, a wide expanse of turquoise flowing under ancient bridges. It was the sort of city that inspired poetry, which came as no surprise. Seemingly built on beautiful words itself, Shakespeare set three of his plays in the city. She brought her phone and her notebook wherever she went, to capture moments in both medias. There were photos she took for her own memories, and pictures she snapped especially for Spencer; the statue of Dante in the square being one she knew he would appreciate.

Her personal favorite place was Via Capello no. 23, the purported "House of Capulet." Below what would have been Juliet's balcony were dozens of letters written to the heroine. She looked over them carefully, reading the scribbles of many different languages. The ones she understood were mostly from star-crossed lovers, not unlike Juliet herself. They lamented a lost love or begged for advice. Unable to resist, Bianca pulled a piece of paper from her notepad. What was she supposed to write? She hadn't lost Spencer, she found him, again and again. And whether or not he realized it, he managed to find her when she needed him most. He was her compass, keeping her on course. Rather than write to a fictional character, she penned a short poem to him, to let him know that even across the world he was on her mind.

Though the ceremony wasn't until evening, the entire Saturday was spent getting ready. Her duty was to assist Eva along with the five other bridesmaids, and the morning was passed with conversation, wine, and laughter. When dusk finally fell, Bianca stood on the steps of the altar with the rest of the wedding party, watching her friend walk down the aisle in a gorgeous gown. Aoibhegréine, she knew, meant "radiance of the sun." That was the only way to describe the bride, purely radiant, delighted at the sight of Lorenzo waiting for her.

The couple exchanged vows, slight alterations in the words that they had adapted. As part of her gift to Eva, per her request, Bianca had helped to write her side of the vows. They incorporated all that she loved most in her groom, and a short verse of Marianne Williamson poem that Bianca had found for her. Aoibhegréine Ruth Dyfodwg took Lorenzo Antony Forte to have and to hold, for better or for worse, and when the pact was sealed with the traditional kiss, the church erupted in cheers, largely from Eva's side of the pews.

The reception was full of food, champagne, and dancing. There were folk dances from both sides of the families, and it was great fun learning them one by one, and dancing so carefreely with people she was just beginning to know.

When she sat down to catch her breath, her feet sore, Eva took a seat beside her. "I'm glad you could come, Bianca. I've missed you dearly. Strange, how attached you get to someone after only something like two years." They shared a smile, connected by the many days spent studying and living together. "When d'you think I can finally meet this mysterious boyfriend o' yours?"

"Hopefully sometime soon. Maybe you and Lorenzo can make a trip stateside in the future? It might be easier than trying to catch Spencer on a day off."

"I might take you up on tha' someday. It's really a shame though. You know what they say about weddings. Everyone's getting lucky tonight." Bianca's face turned pinker than her dress. "Have you _really_ not slept with him yet?"

She nearly choked on the champagne. "Why do people ask that so casually?" she groaned. That was something private, something that made her heart race at the very mention of it. They had been close in many ways, but that was never one of them. Briefly they had touched the subject, like poking a stick into the unknown. Neither of them had ever been with someone before, and neither was in a rush to cross that figurative bridge. They had set unspoken boundaries over the course of their relationship; if his hands strayed and she tensed up, he knew to stay away. If he flinched from her touch or looked at with her with panic in his eyes, she stopped; though they never ventured very far anyhow. Inexperience and anxiousness kept certain places off limits, and neither dared to go near. He touched her hips but never her chest, she ran her hands down to the small of his back but never beyond. She had told him once, that she was afraid. The idea of sex itself, being so exposed to another person and so physical terrified her, the self-consciousness she always harbored holding her back.

"I'm just surprised, tha's all. You two have known each other for so long. I mean, Lorenzo and I did tha' _years_ ago."

"I'm aware of that," Bianca laughed. "I haven't forgotten the week before Easter when he came to visit, and you barely turned in your paper on _international law and the movements of persons_ in time."

Eva winked at her. "Oh, I was studying the movements of persons. Just not the trafficking kind." It still startled her sometimes, how people could be so blunt and open about something that struck her as intimate and personal. Perhaps, she thought, she was the only one who felt that way, her own fear clouding her judgment.

There was one thing she could see clearly though, and that was the pure adoration on her friend's face when Lorenzo strolled over, his arm outstretched. "My I have this dance, _Mrs. Forte_?"

* * *

The work they did made a difference, that he knew to be true. It also held true that he would have rather traveled with Bianca to the wedding than to Pennsylvania to solve serial slayings just before Valentine's Day. He had asked her, a few weeks ago, why it had to be so far away. "That's the benefit of having international friends," she told him. "You always have a reason to visit somewhere new." When would he get a chance to visit somewhere _with_ her?

He wanted to know if she liked flying over the ocean, if she was impatient while sitting in the airline seats; or if she was content with a plastic cup of water, a bag of pretzels, and a book to read. Could she sleep comfortably on a plane? He never could, not on commercial flights at least. The jet ruined it for him, making the cramped seating seem even tighter and uncomfortable than before. Did she like to sit by the window or the aisle? He pegged her as a window-seat sort of person, always eager to see what was ahead.

Then there was the matter of a ceremony. He had been to very few weddings in his life; JJ's being the most recent. Never had he taken a date to a wedding though, always dancing clumsily with a friend or sitting awkwardly at a table and eating cake. There was something he liked in the idea of attending such a celebration with her, dancing with her around a room slowly, showing off to everyone that yes; he was hers and she was his and that was the way it was supposed to be.

That was the way he always wanted it to be, the two of them, together. That wish took root in his heart and his head agreed that it was right. It was good. They were always traveling and missing each other, but they could count on returning home. Home - it was a broad term that narrowed with time. Home had first been Washington DC, the entire sprawling district. Home had then been a building, and then a specific room in that building, and then it was no longer a place but a feeling and a connection he felt to his team, and to her. Coming back wasn't like coming home when she wasn't there. It would only be one more day before she flew back, and then, _then_ he wouldn't be going home, but home would come back to him.

They spent so much time together, every now and then nearly an entire day would pass before they went their separate ways. It was a common sight to see her in his apartment, resting in an armchair with a book in her hand, or cooking over his stove while he tried to be helpful. Without her, the place felt almost empty. It made sense to have her there, and he couldn't help but think that it made sense for her to move in with him as well. It wasn't as though she was unfamiliar with the space, having stayed two weeks with him before. And it would significantly reduce her commute to the Law Center for classes. Not to mention increase the time they had together.

On the other hand, he knew Bianca adored her apartment building. The Cairo was an old, looming structure full of history and bay windows. Thirteen floors, a gorgeous rooftop view of the city, and its close proximity to her favorite coffeehouse made it all the more appealing. The apartment she'd moved into after returning from The Hague even had an old brick fireplace, and in the winter months she would invite him over to help start a fire in it. The couch or the rug would be pushed close to the brick structure, logs crackling, a pile of old books nearby or soft music crooning from her phone on the table. He would have walked through a blizzard just to cozy up with her under a layer of blankets and watch the snow pile up outside.

Reid had considered the notion of asking her to stay, weeks ago, in hazy morning fogs. Now, it felt less like a dream and more like a need, one he desperately wanted to make tangible and real.

There was one way to do that.

Before he could balk, or talk himself out of it, he grabbed his messenger bag from the table of his terribly empty apartment. There was somewhere he needed to be, and that somewhere could no longer wait.

* * *

He stood near the wall, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he stood outside of the _ARRIVAL_ gate of the Dulles Airport. Yesterday she'd sent him an email, asking if he would be able to pick her up after her flight landed. Every few minutes he glanced at his watch, wondering when she would be there. He was by no means alone, waiting among family members and friends and chauffeurs, some with signs and some with bags, and all with varying expressions on their faces.

Just as he was considering profiling each of them to distract himself, a surge of people rounded the corner, suitcases clattering behind them. A few made beelines to hug someone who had been waiting, others nodded at a uniformed driver holding a sign with their name on it. Everyone there was watching for a passenger, but where was _his_ passenger? Had she been on a plane with these particular people? Where had they come from and where were they going, and where was she? What if she had missed her flight? What if she had decided to stay another day and forgot to tell him?

The small crowd of frazzled flyers dissipated, leaving behind only those who still watched the corner. Five minutes later, another group appeared, more people this time. They walked in a scattered pack, all of them rushing to their destinations. Where was she? She was so small, she could get lost in a crowd so easily, and as he craned his neck to search, she appeared from behind a row of flight attendants.

She was there. Bianca was there, a loose jacket hanging from her shoulders, a bow in her hair, and suitcase rolling behind her. He couldn't contain the smile stretching across his face, and when she saw him standing there her face lit up and she quickened her pace until she was close enough to let go of the handle of her bag and throw her arms around him. "Spencer!" She collided against him, nearly knocking him off balance, but he righted himself easily.

Of all the people coming and going in that airport, there was only one he wanted to see, and when she found him the world had disappeared until he could see only her. He held her tightly against him, relishing the feeling of being near her once more; there was smell of her perfume, lavender and rain, partially masked by the scent of an airplane, the way it felt to run his fingers through her soft hair, the smile he had missed so much.

"I missed you," he said finally.

"I missed you too. And thanks for coming all the way out here to get me! I wasn't looking forward to taking a taxi home." There was that word again, _home_. He wasn't going home, his home was here by his side. Reid grabbed her suitcase, despite her insistence that she could carry it herself, and looped his arm through hers, just to feel her close to his side again.

"Well, it's cheaper this way. And besides, if I drive you, I get to spend a little more time with you."

"Mm, it's so weird not seeing you every day. I think I got too used to that." He was relieved to know it wasn't just him who felt that way. She shivered as they stepped into the parking garage and he pulled the scarf from around his neck to wrap it around her. It was hot on the plane, she explained, and cold in DC. Reid opened the door of his car and she kissed his cheek before climbing inside.

"Did you sleep on the plane?" he asked, fiddling with the ignition.

Bianca shook her head, yawning. "No, I wanted to, but I knew if I did that I wouldn't be able to get back on track tonight."

"What did you do for eleven hours and thirty-two minutes?" If he couldn't travel with her, there was more than one way to get answers.

"Well, I watched a great documentary about Ai Weiwei, and one on Philippe Petit. That took about four hours. I finished re-reading the last half of _Jane Eyre_ in five. And for the last to hours I just listened to music and wrote. You have no idea how difficult it is to stay awake for so long without moving," she laughed. "It's 1 AM Verona time, and I'm so sleepy."

"You can sleep now, if you want," he offered.

"Not right now. I just got back. I want to see you while I can." How stupidly happy it made him to hear that. He wanted to drive back to his building and lead her up the stairs, tell her to stay with him that night. But she was tired, and her apartment was closer, and he knew they both had responsibilities in the morning. It was best if they kept to their own beds. Thirty minutes didn't seem like enough time with her, the drive into the District feeling too short.

"Thank you for being there," she said when they arrived at her apartment. "I missed you." She leaned across the seat and kissed him, and he wished there was no need for them to say goodbye. Not yet. How on earth had they managed when she still lived in New York? Back when a month could pass before they had a chance to see each other. Now a weekend felt like much too long.

There was that desire again, to be so much closer to her for so much longer. Morgan was lucky to live in the same building as Savannah. _Goodbye_ didn't need to spoken until the hallway, if even that. For Reid though, those syllables came sooner, out on the street, where he sat, watching her wave to him before disappearing through the doors beneath the huge archway of The Cairo. Engine idling, he waited for the light to flick on inside her seventh floor apartment window, for her to send him a text saying she made it up alright; before finally pulling away into the night to drive back to his own apartment, alone once again.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **For those of you who read my last update before I caught my mistake, you probably saw this chapter first! So here it is in proper form, in a place where it hopefully makes a bit more sense timeline-wise. Thank you so so much to anyone and everyone who takes the time to read this story, you're absolutely wonderful!  
**

 **A big thank you to giderasia, Vickie1996, Tardis-11-blue, MARVELous05, Tsubaki Envy Uchiha, Sinique, Squintz18, and barbar99 for favoriting/following this story!  
**

 **To ahowell1993** (in response to your comment on this chapter, I really want to have them traveling together, and all of the things you mentioned are upcoming. But as for this particular trip, well, as it says - there was somewhere else he _needed_ to be.), **spurofthemoment24** (welcome back! It's definitely been a nice change of pace haha ), **Sue1313** (I think he's just waiting for the right time. It's just barely been a year since he lost Maeve, and he's finally past his relapse. Reid is a bit of a perfectionist, so he would be looking for the perfect opportunity to ask her), **and Love-Fiction-2016** (thanks!) **thanks for leaving such lovely reviews. And thank you for sticking with me for 26 chapters!** **I'm always so excited when I see that I've got feedback from any of my readers.** **You all mean so much to me.**

 **I'll see you in Chapter 27!  
**


	27. 27) As Long as I Can

She loved watching Spencer and Henry together. Henry was such a sweet kid, and he clearly adored his godfather. The attachment was mutual, Spencer was always happy to see him. Naturally, they were both ecstatic when JJ asked Spencer to babysit so she and Will could go out for a date night.

"You'll come with me, won't you?" he had asked her. At first she wasn't sure if she should, but he assured her that JJ had already given him permission. They arrived at the home of the LaMontagnes just before dinnertime.

"You're a lifesaver, Spence," JJ said on her way out the door. "You know where everything is. Don't hesitate to call if you need anything."

"Just try _not_ to need anything," Will added.

"Uncle Spencer!" Henry was over the moon at the sight of him, charging down the hallway to greet him.

Spencer knelt down to give him a hug. "Hey little guy! How are you?" The blonde boy just grinned. "Henry, do you remember my friend Bianca?" She crouched beside the pair so he could see her better.

"Hi." Henry waved at her. They had met once before, when she'd gone to dinner with the rest of the BAU's extended family.

"Hello, Henry. It's nice to see you. Is it okay if I stay over here with you?"

"Can we still build the solar system?" He looked at Spencer expectantly, his blue eyes huge.

"You bet we can!"

Only then did the boy give her approval to stay. He took to her quickly, seemingly have decided that if she was a friend of Spencer's, she was okay.

Bianca helped Henry to paint tiny models of the planets while Spencer set up an elaborate mobile-like structure with sticks and a hot glue gun. The boy enthusiastically explained the planets to her, proud of what his godfather had taught him. For her part, she couldn't help but feel attached to Henry, sweet and curious as he was. There was an inherent innocence about him, a bliss she hoped he would retain with the passing of years.

While the planets where drying on a sheet of newspaper, they served a gourmet dinner consisting of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, tater tots, and sliced strawberries.

Every few minutes Henry held up one of his chicken nuggets to show Spencer. "What's this one called?"

"That's a stegosaurus."

"What about this one?"

"That's a tyrannosaurus rex!"

After receiving and repeating each name, he would unceremoniously bite off their heads. When the dinosaurs were officially extinct, he wanted to get right back to the solar system. The entire model was built to scale, and Spencer easily converted the measurements he had memorized into inches and centimeters in order to properly space the strands of fishing wire. She helped Henry to attach the planets to the string with expert care, and when it was finished they hung the mobile from the stairs with a thick bit of masking tape.

Henry was then ready to play superheroes. Bianca had to laugh at his definition of a superhero, as Spencer explained their game to her. Henry got to be Reid, and Reid got to be Carl Sagan, and they solved crimes with " _science magic_." It was decided that if Spencer got to be Sagan, Bianca could be Eleanor Roosevelt. The trio raced around the house together, Henry taking the lead. While they were hunting their fifth and final bad guy, she and Spencer turned the corner at the same time, colliding with each other and tumbling to the floor. She sat up, rubbing the back of her head.

"Are you okay?" Henry sat down next to her, concerned blue eyes blinking wide.

"Of course! No worries, Hen- er, _Dr. Reid_. I just hit my head, that's all." She didn't want the boy to worry about her, but Henry turned to "Carl Sagan", unconvinced.

"Can you make it better with science magic?"

"Uh, we can try," he answered. "What should we do?"

Henry gave it much thought, and finally decided, "You should kiss her. That always works in the fairytales mommy reads me." With a laugh, his godfather placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. Immediately she declared herself healed, and gave Henry a high-five for his brilliant solution. The last villain was locked away, and there was a celebratory round of cookies and milk. It was comfortable, sitting in the kitchen with them, telling jokes and listening to Henry tell them stories about his friends from school.

Checking the clock, Bianca noted that his parents would be returning home soon. They wanted to get back in time to read to their son before bed. Upon informing their young charge of this, he pleaded for Spencer to show him a magic trick first. His favorite was the one with the film cap and Mentos. Spencer grabbed a soda from the fridge and filled the tiny black container up. With a tiny bit of tape he attached a white circle to the lid, and closed it back on tightly before flipping it over. The cap shot up in the air like a rocket.

"It's going to Mars!" Henry shouted, pointing at the solar system model. His delight was paralleled only by his parents' reactions upon seeing the mobile taped to their stairs when they came home minutes later.

"Why is the solar system on my railing?" JJ asked, hanging up her coat on the door.

"We made the planets!" Henry tugged on his mother's dress. "Can they stay longer mommy?"

"I think they want to go home and sleep," Will answered. "Just like you need to be doing soon. Why don't you say bye, then we'll go get you ready for bed, okay?"

Henry wrapped each of them in a hug and they waved goodnight as the drowsy toddler was led upstairs by his father.

"Thanks again for doing this. He really loves you two." JJ smiled. "Besides, it's good practice for you." Both turned pink at what she was insinuating. With another exchange of goodbyes, she and Spencer made their way to his car before any further comments could be made.

"You're really good with him," Bianca noted. They were speeding down the dark road towards her apartment building. "It's no wonder you're his favorite profiler." Bit by bit she was learning just how good he was with children. It wasn't just Henry either – a few months ago he'd delivered a baby while on a case, and he was immensely excited about it. The woman even named the boy after him, and Spencer Reid poured over the baby pictures of Spencer Johnson for days afterwards.

"It wasn't always that way," he admitted. "Up until a few years ago, little kids always freaked out when I was around. Animals, too. Hotch and Gideon used to call it _The Reid Effect_. For what it's worth, I think Henry liked you a lot."

She was glad to hear that. The BAU were practically a family unit, and Henry was much like Spencer's nephew. Watching him with his godson, hearing the affection in his voice when he talked about Henry, a question lodged in her throat, one she hadn't asked him yet. "Um, do you… do you want kids some day?"

He didn't even blink. "Of course. I never really gave it much thought, since I spent so little time being a kid myself. But spending so much time around Henry and Jack changed that. Don't get me wrong, I love being a godfather, but I'd like to be a parent someday, too." Keeping a firm grip on the steering wheel, he glanced sideways at her. "Do you?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "When I was growing up, I was adamant about never having kids. Considering the family I came from, I was always afraid I would end up like my own parents. I mean, I don't know if I have the confidence to raise a human being… to love them right." Her voice grew quieter with every word. If intimacy scared her, the thought of having a family petrified her. Her childhood had been filled with arguing and tension, the last thing she wanted to do was to inflict that on someone else. Why was it so hard to repair the oldest of wounds? Scars left at a young age were always deep. Having people _like_ family was very different from trying to create a family.

"But you're so great with people. I know you like kids – you understand them, you've always been passionate about protecting them when it comes to your job. And besides, love is one of the things you do best."

Fear wasn't the only problem. Biology had to be included in the equation. "Even if I change my mind someday, I don't even know if I can have children…. Eating disorders have side effects. The hair loss, the cardiac problems, the intolerance to cold, those things can get better with time; but some women who have struggled with anorexia have a hard conceiving later in life. I don't know if it's possible for me or not."

He was silent in the driver's seat, and Bianca worried her words had upset him. After all, how could someone who wanted to be a father reconcile that desire with their partner's unwillingness to have children? He had faced so much, overcome so much; why couldn't she work through her fears on his behalf? She was afraid to sleep with him, she was afraid to have a family. What did _he_ want? And why couldn't she be okay with that?

"Well," he said finally. "I never really pictured us as a couple with a dog and 2.5 kids and a white picket fence yard. It's a little too cliché for my liking." The amiable tone of his voice surprised her. "How do you feel about a house though?"

Was he trying to change the subject? "Um, I guess houses are nice. They have more space than an apartment."

"Which means more space for books. I don't think we would need a huge house though, that just means more to clean. We could get a small house, not too far from the District." The smile he gave her told her that this conversation was purely hypothetical, and she felt a bit more comfortable speculating.

"A nice cottage-like house," she added. "We could fill every room with bookshelves. Our own personal library. And we would have a willow tree in the backyard. It would be perfect to place read in the summer."

"A willow tree in the back, and flowers in the front. We could spend all weekend reading. If we had a house, that would mean a driveway, and we could invite everyone over on holidays for a party."

"And line the entire sidewalk with jack-o-lanterns on Halloween."

"I'd like that," he laughed. The sky was dark, hardly any stars visible. Bianca looked out the window, watching trees and buildings fly past them. They could build a future together in that car, imagining the far-flung possibilities. It was easy to lay words like bricks, but creating something tangible, that was the trick.

Spencer was humoring her, and she tried to return the favor. "If… if we did have kids someday… what would you name them?"

Even she had thought about baby names at some point. She figured everyone did at least once, wondering what letters they would put together to name a child of their own. "If I had a son… Arthur Jason."

"Why those names?"

"Well, the first to pay homage to Sir Conan Doyle, one of my favorite writers. The second to pay tribute to Gideon. Lots of people name their kids after their parents, but Gideon was always there for me once I joined the Bureau. I never had that from my dad. I think names should mean something, and those are two people I greatly admire." Then, "What would you pick?"

"Atticus Finch," she decided. "For obvious reasons." Atticus had been her role model, her idea of a bravery and benevolence. If Gideon had felt like a father to Spencer, she had been raised by the altruism Harper Lee wrote into that character. He inspired her, even now. "What if you had a daughter?"

This one took him longer to answer. "Maria Spencer."

"Hey, that's cheating," she laughed. "You would name her after yourself?"

"Who said there were rules?" He grinned at her before returning his attention the road. "But it's not what you think. Maria, I would choose for Maria Sklodowska, better known to the world as Marie Curie. She was the first woman to win a Nobel prize, and she pioneered research on radioactivity with her husband. If I had a daughter, I would want her to know she was capable of doing anything she set her mind to.

"But Spencer," he continued, "is for my mom, not for me. Diana sounds a lot like Diane, and well, after everything that happened that day I think it would conjure unpleasant connotations for me. But my mother taught medieval literature, stories from the age of princes and princesses. Arguably the most famous princess of the modern era was Diana, Princess of Wales. She was a kind person, who separated from her husband like my parents did. Before she was married, her surname was Spencer. So it's a very roundabout way of using my mother's name."

"I would expect nothing less," she said. It was always fascinating to hear the way his mind worked, how he connected dots in patterns nobody else could have fathomed.

"It's your turn," he told her, as the car came to a halting stop in front of her building.

Bianca considered it briefly. There had never been a particular name she felt tied down to, but the inkling of an idea in her thoughts now suddenly seemed right. "Elizabeth Mae. Elizabeth for Elizabeth Bennett, in _Pride and Prejudice_. It was my favorite book in high school."

"I figured that's what it was," Spencer said. "But what happened in May that's so important to you?"

She looked down at her lap, and his heart practically stopped when she explained it. "It's um… It's not M-A-Y, like the month. It's M-A-E. Like – like _Maeve_." Whatever the circumstances, Maeve was still important to Spencer. In the two years she'd been gone, Maeve had been the one who gave him hope, who kept him safe, and in an odd way Bianca felt grateful to her for that.

He stared at her with a blank expression, his mouth parted just a fraction. Had she gone too far? Maeve was _his_ somebody, she shouldn't have assumed that it was okay to suggest something like that. But then he traced the curve of skin behind her ear, letting his hand come to rest against her jaw.

"Have I ever told you that you're the most wonderful woman on the planet?"

She breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't angry with her, after all. Gently, she reached up to place her hand over his. "No. But you have said _I love you_ , and that's pretty much the same thing."

* * *

Ivy's hair was a soft green now, and she pinned it up in a bun as she sat at a table across from Bianca. On Wednesdays, with no class or work, she had gone to visit her barista friend at Swing's during the slow, afternoon lull when barely a soul came in. On those days, Ivy treated her to a cup of coffee on the house, and they swapped stories in the empty shop. At the moment, the topic of choice was their respective relationships.

"Jess has just been so busy lately," Ivy lamented. Her girlfriend was veterinarian, who ran a popular practice catering to every sort of pet imaginable. "I mean it's great that she's doing so well with work and everything, but when she gets home, it's either so late even _I_ want to go to bed, or she's too tired to do anything. It's been almost a whole month since we last had sex, and I'm _dying_. Dry spells are the worst. You know what I mean?" She leaned over the tables conspiratorially.

Bianca glanced down at her coffee cup, feeling the heat creep into her cheeks. Ivy gasped in shock, smacking the table. "Oh. My. God. You're a _virgin_?" The barista took her friend's lack of response as affirmation. "Jesus, Bianca. You're like a freaking unicorn or something. I mean, come on, how long have you and your G-Man been together anyways?"

It was hard to answer that. In total, they had known each other for almost four years, but they'd only been dating for about two, and he had been in a serious relationship in that two year gap. "A while," she said finally.

"And you've never slept with him?" Bianca shook her head. It wasn't the first time someone had asked something like that. Garcia had hinted at something like that, Eva had bugged her about it at the wedding, even some of her Georgetown classmates exhibited a similar response when a conversation like this had come up.

"Why not? Is this a religious thing, or what?" Ivy asked, suddenly interested.

She was religious, but that wasn't the reason. Having serious conversations, trading secrets, spending hours side by side; she was comfortable with that kind of intimacy. The sort that came with butterflies and effortlessness. Sex, that was a wholly different brand. It was giving a part of yourself so completely to someone, everything stripped away and painfully real. Butterflies where the furthest thing from what she felt when she thought about that. It was more like terror.

Bianca had never been able to explain exactly what about it scared her so much. It had taken her a while to finally gather the courage to ask, "Have you ever, um… _been_ with anyone before?" While they'd talked about previous relationships before, that was one question they hadn't discussed.

Was he more experienced? He'd never pressured her into anything before, the both of them moving at their own steady pace. "Uh, no. I haven't," he'd replied. "I mean, I was too young in college, and by the time I was old enough, I was too busy with work to think much about relationships. Why? Have you?"

"No, I haven't either." It was comforting to know she wouldn't seem inexperienced or prudish to him. "I don't really know how comfortable I am with the idea."

"What do you mean?" he asked. So many times they had touched, and she never seemed bothered at physical contact. But a kiss was miles from having sex with someone.

"It's… it's a huge commitment." It wasn't that she was afraid of being close to him, but sex was an unfamiliar sort of closeness. Commitment of a different variety, one that required so much more trust, and one that led to so much more liability. "When I think about it, the first that comes to mind is my parents. Having kids didn't work out for them; being married isn't working out for them. That sort of commitment ruined things between them. I don't want that to happen to us."

"It won't." His voice was sincere, and she knew that he would do whatever it took to make her feel better, safe.

"But sex means giving yourself to someone else, and I don't know if I'm ready for that kind of intimacy. The idea of being completely exposed, of letting someone see me that way, it terrifies me. It was hard enough for me to believe that you weren't going to find something wrong with me someday." Maybe it was the fact that she was so uncomfortable in her own skin and afraid to let someone see that much of her.

Nightmares had interrupted her sleep before with hazily similar scenarios. They would be in his bedroom, and he would be undressing her. As soon as the clothes came off, he would simply shake his head before leaving her there alone and exposed. That fear had no reason or truth in it, there was no one in the world she trusted more, but it scared her regardless.

As if to prove that he was better than her nightmares, Spencer had traced circles on the backs of her hands, gazing calmly at her. "It's okay. I don't have any experience with that either, and I'm absolutely okay with waiting until that's something you want. Right now, this – " he leaned over to kiss her for a heartbeat " – is enough for me."

That conversation had taken place months ago, but in the present she anxiously averted her eyes from her friend's burning stare. "I guess we just never thought it about much," Bianca said. "He's always traveling for work, and we both have jobs and our own apartments. When he's home, we spend all our time going out places. Just being around him is enough for me."

There would come a day when she finally found the courage to take that leap with him, when she would trust herself to find comfort in that intimacy and not fear. She knew he would be gentle with her, he always was. That fear just felt so deeply rooted, so difficult to shake, despite the courage he gave her or the care he took with her.

Ivy considered that, tapping her jade colored fingernails against the table. "Okay, but aren't you even a little bit curious? What it's like?"

Bianca shrugged. "It's like going on a cruise ship. Everyone says it's nice, but I've never been on one, so I don't know if I'm missing out on something or not. And I've read enough about the Titanic to decide I'm in no hurry to find out."

"Comparing sex to the Titanic," Ivy said, rolling her eyes. "That's just a euphemism waiting to happen. But come on, seriously. Don't you want to know? Don't you ever wonder if he _wants_ you? I mean he's a dude. So…"

Ivy's questions were becoming increasingly invasive, and she wanted desperately to change the subject. Why did it matter so much to other people if she and Spencer had slept together or not? Wasn't that a private issue? For all her fears about intimacy like that, the question lodged in the back of her mind. _Did_ he want her like that? Was that the problem? And if he did, was she the one holding them back from taking the next step? Trying to think about that kind of desire, about him desiring her in _that_ way, lustfully, made her stomach flip, like the sharp drop of a roller coaster hill. It felt very much that way, like being at the top of the metal tracks and looking over the edge, wondering if she was ready to take that plunge.

"I don't know," Bianca answered timidly. "We don't really talk about things like that."

Ivy flicked an eyebrow up. "Well, you know, there's only one way to find out."

* * *

North Dakota had been chilly, spring just beginning to creep over the frost of the grassy plains. The team was finally closing in on the unsub, a serial rapist who left his victims branded with a burn in the shape of the letter _A._ Closer investigation had revealed that all of the women had cheated on their significant others at some point, which led Reid to believe the unsub to view himself as a man scorned, like Chillingworth in _The Scarlet Letter_. (Honestly, who named a villain Chillingworth? Talk about an obvious reveal.) Garcia was searching for men who might match their description, having been instructed to look specifically for men whose wives had given birth to a child that wasn't their own - "The closer to the character's situation, the better," Rossi told her.

He was confident in their analyst's ability to find him, which meant they would likely be returning to Washington by that night. He called Bianca to let her know, but she didn't answer. That wasn't like her. His heart rate increasing, he dialed the number again, and he worries were allayed when he heard her pick up.

"Spencer?" Her voice was heavy.

"Hi. Is everything okay?" It was a Friday morning, she should've been at work by now, and therefore awake and alert. A perpetual morning person, she was.

"Yeah," she answered weakly, and he wasn't convinced.

"Did you just wake up? You don't sound too good."

"I'm not feeling too good, that's all. My stomach feels weird, and I think I have a fever. It's been going around the campus though, so don't worry about me. I should be better by tomorrow." She swallowed hard, and there was the sound of rustling blankets. "Will you be home by then?"

If she hadn't left her bed yet, she must've been feeling terrible. He should have been there with her now, not at a police station in Fargo, drinking terrible coffee. How sick was she? Had she eaten at all that morning? "I think so. We're almost done here."

"Oh, good." He could practically hear her smile through the phone. "I'll see you tomorrow then, I guess."

"I'll see you then. Take care of yourself, okay? I love you."

"I love you too." There was nothing he wanted so desperately as to be back in Washington to make sure she was okay. Worrying wouldn't help him though, the best thing he could do now was to work the case so they could go home.

He shoved his phone back into his bag, and hurried over to the bulletin board. Any minute now, Garcia would have names, and the sooner they found the right name, the sooner he would see Bianca again. Reid glanced at the map, examining his geographic profile once more, and then grabbed the worn copy of Hawthorne's book from the table. Leafing through the pages, something hit him, something he should've seen before.

"Excuse me, Detective?" The silver-haired woman ambled over to him, and he grabbed a marker, outlining the comfort zone in red. "Are there any churches in this area?"

"Just one," she answered. "Holy Cross. Lotsa people go there."

"Did you find something?" Alex had appeared next to them.

"There's been a new victim every two days, but five days have passed without the unsub striking again, but what if he's not hiding like we thought? In _The Scarlet Letter_ , Chillingworth isn't content to just torment Hester, eventually he seeks his revenge on her child's father. We said the more like the character, the better. In the book, Hester's lover is the minister of her church. What if our unsub is following the same narrative?"

"And finally taking out the real object of his rage," Blake finished. "A figurative Dimmesdale."

"We need to get the church."

* * *

When the door swung open, Bianca was delighted to see Spencer standing in the hallway.

"Hi," he said, pulling one hand from his pockets and giving that awkward wave of his.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. He looked tired, worn out almost. He was wearing typical case-attire, though it admittedly wasn't that different than his everyday dress. He even had his revolver holstered in his belt still.

He adjusted the strap of his messenger bag. "You said you weren't feeling well. I thought I'd come over and stay with you."

She laughed. He must've come straight from Quantico to her building. "I'm feeling better now, especially now that you're here." Bianca leaned her head up against the doorway. "You just flew in from a case. You should go home and get some rest."

Spencer glanced around her shoulder, turning to look up and down the hallway. "It looks enough like home to me. Apartment building, hallway, door…" He beamed at her. "Besides, you took care of me. At least let me keep you company tonight. Please? I'm too tired to drive home." Now he was pouting. "I even rented _The Sound of Music_ for you."

Bianca relented, letting the door swing wide so he could step in. "How long have you been back?" she asked, setting the deadbolt back in place.

"Uh, a few hours? Why do you ask?"

Bianca pointed at his hip. "You're still wearing your gun." He flushed, and hurriedly undid his belt in order to remove the firearm holster, shoving it into his messenger bag. While he was fiddling with the buckle of the belt once more, she added, "I'm okay, really. I had a fever earlier, but it's gotten better."

Spencer bent down and pressed his lips to her forehead. "You still feel a little warm to me."

Bianca looked up at him. He was dressed in one of his usual outfits - his brown suit, a pale purple shirt, a gray vest she'd seen him wear before, and his black tie ever so slightly off kilter. Hanging loosely from his neck was his purple scarf, the one she loved so much, though she couldn't quite explain why. Her conversation with Ivy yesterday echoed in her head, and she lifted her hand to run her fingers down his arm. "You - you look kinda hot yourself…" She waited to gauge his reaction, and he turned to her, eyebrows raised.

"Are you sure you're feeling okay, Bianca?"

She laughed. "Yes. I just missed you, that's all. How many layers are you wearing anyways?"

He glanced down at his clothing. "It was a little cold in North Dakota." He smiled, his eyes quickly looking over Bianca - her blue butterfly-print blouse, high-waisted shorts, the socks that went up past her knees. "I'm partial to your outfit though. You look much prettier."

He stepped closer to her, big hands reaching to hold her face as he kissed her deeply, and she pressed her mouth hard against his. It was fast, forceful, altogether urgent. When he pulled away, she searched his eyes, seeing a sort of hunger she wasn't used to finding there, confirming – she presumed – that he _did_ feel that way. She moved back in, as he responded in equal fervor. His body was pressed against hers, the weight causing her to stumble - but her caught her, placing his hands on her hips, and holding tight as he lifted her, moving to the sofa.

She turned, sat up on her knees and leaned against him, reclining the both of them onto the cushions. So much was just movement; fingers tracing the outlines of shoulders and backs and cheeks, lips moving at the same time, lungs drawing breath in and out. Spencer shrugged out of his blazer, the room now feeling warm. Bianca undid the buttons of his vest, loosened his tie. She reached for him desperately, pulling him in, placing his hands just under the hem of her shirt, shivering at the sensation of his fingertips against her spine.

Each touch, each caress from him was so gentle and yet so needy. A way to physically communicate just how much he'd missed being close to her. In their two years apart she never did forget the things that he loved or all his particular habits; in the same way she had always remembered the way he felt, and how it felt to be held by him. To be kissed. To be loved by him. Every time they were together was a chance to reacquaint herself with the familiar territory of his skin, replacing memories of sensations with the real thing.

Breaths became gasps for air, his fingers were in her hair, her hands were on his chest. She wanted him, she _wanted_ him. Didn't she? She pressed her lips to his jaw, eliciting a sigh from him. He searched for her mouth again, ravenous for contact while she worked away at the buttons on his shirt, exposing his chest in a steady pattern of movement, her roaming hands moving dangerously south. The removal of clothing seemed the easiest way to make her intentions clear. Bianca sat up, fumbling with the top button of her shorts. Before she could undo it though, strong hands wrapped around her wrists.

"B-Bianca?" Spencer said, his voice cracking. She met his eyes slowly. Confusion took the place of the ardor residing there moments ago. "Are…" He drifted off, looked away, and tried again. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Did she? Did _she_ want this? Or was it the small voice, in the back of her head echoing the words of all those who had asked: _have you?_ and _will you?_ and _why don't you?_

She took a deep breath. Here was the man she loved, looking out for her as always, reading her so easily. He was a profiler, after all. Bianca let her fists drop in defeat. "No," she said quietly, surprisingly relieved he had stopped her. It wasn't that she didn't want _him_ , she just wasn't sure she wanted _this_. Not yet.

Spencer quickly redid some of the lower buttons on his shirt before sitting up, and swung his legs around to the front of the couch, pulling her into his lap as he did so. "So what's this about then?"

"I missed you," she sighed. "And when you're away sometimes, I worry."

"What? That I'll meet someone else? Believe me, I have no intention of leaving you," he said, a small chuckle escaping his mouth. Once serious again, he continued. "Out of all our cases, maybe three times has a girl shown interest in me, not counting the alarming number of times I've been propositioned by a prostitute. That's what Morgan's for." She gave him a tiny smile. "And even if they did, it wouldn't matter. I love _you._ "

"And I love you. But it's not that. It's more like worrying that something will happen to you. And there will be all these things we never got to say, or do. I don't know, I guess I just thought that maybe if we had sex _,_ then I would stop worrying so much. Or maybe I was just trying to prove something to myself. That you'd want me in that way." Bianca shrugged, embarrassed.

Spencer laughed. "Believe me B, it's uh, not for lack of want. I want you, in many senses of that word," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flickered down to his trousers, which suddenly seemed tighter than they had a few minutes ago. "But you told me this scared you. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable and, well, I don't really have much experience either. We don't have to rush. I'm more than willing to wait for the day when you _are_ ready."

"Me too," she said. "Thanks for respecting that. And for being okay with that."

"Of course. Just, um…" He clenched his fists tightly. "Next time, could you give me a warning before you do something like that? I don't think you realize what you do to me sometimes." Oh, she could guess, judging by the rush of heat she still felt, the way she couldn't catch her breath. Being that intimate, there was still something that scared her about it, but if her mind was uncertain, her body was far from it. Every place he'd touched her seemed to hum, burning all too clearly.

They stood, both feeling self-conscious. "I think we both need rest," he decided. "It's a little late for me to be getting home, and I brought my go-bag. I'll just go change, and sleep on the couch."

"Wait," Bianca said, grabbing his elbow. "I'm not ready to have sex with you. But I do want to sleep with you." She looked down shyly. "I kind of miss that, from the time at your place. And besides, there's no way you'd fit comfortably on my couch."

In the end, he agreed, and it was her turn to quietly lead him into her bedroom. She watched as he took it in - the bookshelf, organized by genre and then color; the tiny plants on the windowsill; the watercolor paintings hanging on the walls; the photos on the desk, one with a photo of him in its frame. She lifted the lavender blankets of her bed, inviting him into a space that no other person had been granted access to. It was a strange and wonderful comfort, having him there beside her again, in her own apartment.

On the couch they were all movement, frenzied and passionate. Beneath her blankets, there was stillness, a different sort of intimacy; not lust, but love. His legs brushed against hers, and she felt only too aware of the fact she had on only an oversized t-shirt when his arms wrapped around her and held her against his chest. Was that what forever felt like? Such comfort, such contentment? To have complete faith that the person beside you loved you, needed you as much as you needed them.

"Thank you," she whispered to him from across the pillows. "For staying."

"It's okay. I wanted to stay. For as long as I can." Spencer gave her one more quick kiss, and she happily rested her cheek against his chest, both of them content to stay exactly where they were.

 _"Perhaps it's our imperfections that make us so perfect for one another." – Jane Austen_

* * *

 _"Perhaps it's our imperfections that make us so perfect for one another." – Jane Austen_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I don't think I've written a chapter this long in quite some time! There's a lot here, so I apologize for the length. I was so nervous writing this chapter - especially that last scene (I wanted it to be awkward but not _too_ awkward)!  
**

 **Once upon a time ahowell1993 asked me if this conversation would ever take place between them; I said "eventually." So 27 chapters later, here it is, haha! Spencer and Henry are so precious together, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity for those vague-sort-of-hypothetical discussions of the future.  
**

 **Thank you to sparklegirl18, SeriouslySirius0409, daniethornhill, and dreamsmadereality for following/favoriting this story!  
**

 **For my beloved reviewers: dianakotori** (thank you! I'm glad you liked it. Haha, I was a bit skeptical about the season 9 hair at first, but it soon became one of my favorites), **ahowell1993** (one of those things has finally happened!), **Sue1313** (I think they're always happier when they're together :) and it's probably strange since he's used to being away, not the other way around), **SeriouslySirius0409** (Oh thank you! And haha, they both have their hesitations when it comes to that. I don't think it would cheapen the relationship at all, I just think they're both in the process of still figuring that out), **gossamermouse101** (oh wow I haven't seen that movie in ages, but it's so cute), **Love-Fiction-2016** ( :D ), **and Guest** (that's true, haha, but I didn't want too much unnecessary exposition). **I'm so grateful for you! Thank you for absolutely making my day with your thoughtful messages. You are absolutely the best!**

 **And I'm so thankful for all of you out there silently reading as well! I love you all, and I hope you're doing well!  
**


	28. 28) Questions

_"I give you my promise from this day forward that you shall not walk alone. May my heart be your shelter and my arms be your home." – Marianne Williamson_

* * *

Things were changing again. How could love continue to grow? His feelings for her were evolving still. They had come to know and reknow each other, they had pulled their relationship back from the brink of death, and yet again there was something new. Ever since those two weeks at his apartment, things had been changing. It no longer felt like enough to try and synchronize their schedules and meet in their free time, or even to spend quiet weekends doing the things they used to do. He wanted _more_.

It wasn't just the way she pulled him onto the couch that night after North Dakota, though that had definitely been something new. He'd touched her before, and while the flush of heat that had crept through his flesh was by no means unfamiliar, he had never _felt_ so strongly as he had then. The physical wasn't enough to explain the change though; he was still inexperienced in that department and he had no desire to do anything with her before she was ready – truth be told, he needed time to prepare for that too.

No, it went beyond that. It was a warm feeling in his chest that somehow left him feeling strangely hollow, like there was a piece of him missing, something vital that had been carved away. When Maeve died, he had been utterly unwhole, his _whole_ heart gone, but that wasn't it either. It was a need for something that was still there, not unwhole, but incomplete. He was a puzzle still lacking that final answer, and the solution was her. She was the origin of everything, the only theory he could hold in his arms and not just in his head. In the darkness that had become a central part of his story, she was a lantern in the night, pushing back the dark with beat of her heart. A living sunrise, she was that constant and that necessary.

There was no version of the future he could imagine without her in it, for he no longer allowed himself to imagine a day where she would vanish like so many others had from his life – not by choice, never by choice; but he would choose to keep her safe. So why was there still that echo of loneliness? When he felt like he was drifting, sinking, she was the lighthouse-keeper beckoning her Odysseus home from the waves, at the end of every voyage it was blatantly apparent to him that she _was_ home. The very definition of the word had become Bianca, and he couldn't pinpoint exactly when that had happened. All he knew was that it felt incredibly right.

Every second with her was right. He could hold her in his arms, and feel the delicacy of her bones, but never did he mistake her soul for being fragile. His hands could easily feel the sharpness of her shoulder blades through her sweaters, and it took little effort to lift her from the ground (something he was all-too-happy to be able to do) but for all her smallness she was strong, and when he was struggling she gave him strength. He was reminded of Shakespeare's words: " _though she be but little she is fierce."_ Fiercely loyal, fiercely loving. Never did he mistake her kindness for weakness; her ability to empathize and to remain gentle despite what came her way was a gift he did not take for granted.

What then was to come? He'd been asking himself that question for months. There were few guarantees when it came to deciphering the future, but there would never come a day when he did not want her to be a part of his. She said she would stay, when had that no longer been enough? The beginnings of it had come not long after he returned to work, though he hadn't identified it until she left for the wedding. Only then had been able to name it: longing, a longing that followed him even when she was with him, for he knew at some point they would have to part ways and he had developed a terribly irrationally fear that one day, she might not return.

He was determined to get over that fear, to quell it as much as he could. Reid bent down on the floor of his bedroom, rummaging in his sock drawer. There were dozens and dozens of pairs of socks, never quite organized since he always selected two at random. That was another habit he'd developed, checking that drawer from time to time for that last puzzle piece. Though he knew it couldn't have gone anywhere, relief still welled up within him when he reached the bottom of the drawer and saw it there.

He didn't have to be afraid anymore.

* * *

Reid was staring at his phone, turning it over in his hands. Alex watched him for a few minutes, curious. It wasn't like him to be so distracted while on a case. Finally, it hit her, and she couldn't help but smile. Hotch appeared next to her, but she silenced him before he could ask what she was doing. "Look at that," she whispered. The unit chief followed her line of sight, landing on Reid for a moment. "It's happening, Aaron."

Stern as he was, the corners of his mouth turned upward slightly at the sight. "And so it is."

"What's happening?" Morgan asked, stepping beside them.

"Reid," she told him. "And Bianca."

Morgan frowned, glancing at Reid, who was now examining the cell phone in his hands. "They're already together. What are you talking about?"

"It's more than that. He's going to call her. Just listen," Blake instructed. Sure enough, Reid lifted the phone to his ear, and they all fell quiet as he bounced back and forth on his toes. His eyes traveled up to the ceiling, almost impatient, and then a grin lit up face. She must've answered his call.

Though Reid's voice was soft, they could still make out the conversation. "Hi! I missed you too," he said. "No, everything's okay. I was just thinking about you… Yeah, I guess I did. Is that okay?" Another pause, and he shoved his free hand in his pocket, staring off into space with a delightfully dazed expression. "It's a bit more complicated than we expected, but I don't want you to worry. We'll be home soon."

"I still don't get it," Morgan whispered. It was just a phone call. "What's going on here?"

"Actually, that would be great," Reid was saying. "Really! I want to go to breakfast with you… Well, we could always just stay in. You could come over, and we could uh, try to make pancakes without making a mess this time." For a brief second, his cheeks turned pink, and he laughed. "You're probably right… Huh. You think so? I mean, _I_ do. If you… Okay, then it's settled…. Yeah, I will. Bianca?... I love you." After saying goodbye, he hung up, but held the phone in his hand still. A smile was still on his face as he gazed down at it, before pocketing it with a sigh and returning his attention back to the bulletin board.

"What am I missing?" Morgan asked, still perplexed.

"He's in love with her," Blake said. "Very much so."

"I know _that_. But you're acting like it's some big secret."

Hotch shook his head. "You'll get it, someday. It's harder to see when you haven't been there yourself."

Morgan seemed offended at that remark, but Alex put her hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. It's just that their relationship is changing. Evolving. Think about it," she said. "How many more times does he call her now? How often does he mention her, or invite her along somewhere? How often is she calling him?"

Derek considered that. Over the last few months, especially since the summer, Reid had been acting differently. He'd never had many people to talk to outside of work, but suddenly he was telling stories about weekends spent with his girlfriend, or mentioning offhandedly that she'd dragged him out to meet her classmates for coffee, or tagged along with him to a convention.

For as long as they'd been friends, the doctor had abhorred handshakes, and yet he reached for her hand willingly. Reid had a need to keep his personal space personal, one had to be invited in. That space had expanded to include her in it, always. Then there were the phone calls. Twice he'd been roomed with Reid on a recent case, and the last thing he did each night was call Bianca. Once he'd even called her in the morning before having his coffee, and that was saying something.

"But the most important thing you need to ask yourself is does he look happy?" That much was obvious. He looked happier than Derek could ever remember seeing him. He smiled more, his gaze was rarely so distant unless he was calling her, and he just seemed more... himself. As though there had been a part of him missing all this time, and he'd finally found it.

Morgan looked at Reid once more, then back at Blake and Hotch. "So what does all of that mean?"

"What it means," Hotch said, "is it won't be long now before he asks her."

"Asks her? Asks her what?" As soon as the words left his mouth, Derek realized just what they meant.

Alex nodded anyways. "To marry him, of course. I'm not saying it's going to happen right away. But someday." She and Hotch seemed pleased, like proud parents watching their son grow up. Morgan stood flabbergasted, trying to process it. Could his friend really do that? A few years ago, it would've been absurd to think Spencer would be married before he was.

However, he had to admit, the kid was in deep. He looked at her as though he'd never seen the stars before, and she was the goddamn Northern lights. A celestial sort of love, strong enough to change tides and form galaxies. Bianca understood him in ways no profiler ever had – the way a conversation with her could calm him down, the way she genuinely found his jokes to be funny, the way the mere mention of her name made him smile. Even his nightmares seemed less frequent now. Morgan wasn't quite sure how she managed that, but her presence clearly soothed him. Seeing him now, considering that, it seemed inevitable. Reid was going to marry that woman someday.

* * *

Little by little the hours in their days were filling up, getting busier than ever. Her time was spent working with one of her professors as part of a law school clinical; she and a small group of students had been extended the opportunity to assist that professor in building a case to help charge Boko Haram at the international court level after the Chibok kidnappings in Nigeria. He balanced case after case, and therefore pile after pile of paperwork. They managed to set aside time for a day trip to New York for her 28th birthday, returning to the city where they first met. It was the strangest sense of nostalgia, to see that so little of the place had changed when so much about _them_ had.

Still, between the chaos and the business, they had one steady haven – the breakfast dates that they worked hard to keep no matter what else they had going on. Over good food and hot coffee, they could both unload whatever had been weighing on their minds and their hearts, unpacking whatever worries their work left them with. It was their time, their space to forget about everything outside and enjoy each other's company. Peaceful, relaxing. There, nothing could interrupt the happiness that accompanied their interactions.

Nothing but the notification on her phone, one that drew her eyebrows down in concern. "What is it?" Reid asked.

Unease settled over her, her face pale. Something was scaring her. "It's the girls," she said. "The missing girls from Columbus. They found them."

He started to open his mouth to ask whether they'd been found alive, but the look on her face told him there was no point in inquiring. "Where were the bodies?"

It took her a moment of scanning whatever article she had pulled up to produce an answer. "Near the river. Only a few miles outside of Columbus."

The Olentangy River. It was close enough to cause concern for her. Close enough to her brother. In truth, when she first told him about the abductions, the panic in her eyes had been enough to make him nervous. Rick fell into the small category of things that terrified her, and after having met the young man, he believed she was absolutely justified in that fear. Nathan Harris, he had compulsions and fantasies, but he had a sense of morality and sympathy. Her brother however, he was cold. Completely detached and utterly lacking in respect. If he chose to hurt someone, he could do serious damage.

"They've been dead for a few months," she added. "Do you – do you think it's possible he'll take someone else?"

"If it's the same person, it's very probable." Bianca continued to scroll through her phone, her eyebrows furrowed in focus. With a gentle hand, he reached over to push the cell phone down to the table. "Hey. It's not going to help."

"But…" That look. He knew the look she was giving him, it mirrored the way he felt every time they were told they hadn't been invited in, every time jurisdictional boundaries or protocol came before saving lives, every time a courtroom allowed a killer to get off easy.

"Obsessing over this won't change anything. We have to trust in the system. Come on. We have the rest of the day off. Let's go to the library, or a museum. Or we can go back to my apartment and watch a whole season of _Doctor Who_. I just want to take your mind off of this."

Off of the case, off of her family. The last time she'd spoken to them had been just before moving back to the States. A short phone call from her mother, seemingly out of obligation, to inquire about her experience living abroad. When prying about him revealed they were no longer together, Ann Brown was apparently relieved, saying that clearly it wasn't meant to work out. That perhaps it was for the best. But Bianca made him _better_ , and though he fretted about it he liked to believe that he was good for her as well.

"Can we go to the Phillips Collection?" she asked. A small museum of modern art, showcasing everything from paintings to sculptures to letters. Reid didn't always see the appeal of some of the more abstract exhibits, but he always tried to understand, for her.

"Absolutely."

A small smile, uncertain and fleeting, returned to her face. The phone was slipped back into her bag, the news it held temporarily set aside. "Okay."

Breakfast was finished, and they started on their way to the art museum, trying to get there before the ominous rainclouds let loose a downpour on DC.

"We could probably manage to fit in some _Doctor Who_ as well. Is the fifth series okay?"

He searched his brain, trying to figure out why she chose that particular season. His favorite Doctor was the Fourth, whimsical and quirky, just a little offbeat, and a little out of time. As a kid, he'd identified with the long-scarf-wearing, fiercely moral incarnation of the Time Lord. Bianca preferred the equally eccentric Tenth Doctor ("Brilliant, quirky, compassionate, and a fan of Converse. He reminds me of someone else I'm quite fond of."), but the fifth series was Eleven.

 _Eleventh Doctor, fifth series, Amy and Rory, art museum…_ "Vincent and the Doctor?" he guessed. Three of her favorite things in one; Vincent Van Gogh, Europe, and _Doctor Who_.

That uncertain smile widened, and she simply wound her arm through his, falling into step beside him as they walked. Familiarity was a blessing, to be steadfast in the belief that a deep understanding was mutually experienced. It wasn't possible for him – not yet – to give her the answers she so desperately sought; but he could give her his time, rainy afternoons spent in galleries and living rooms hand in hand.

* * *

Beautiful as his mind were the melodies he was capable of producing. Modestly, he claimed it was only from having time to practice, that it was really just like math, but he clearly had a knack for the instrument. The keyboard he'd purchased some time ago still resided in his apartment, and when she'd seen it sitting out, Bianca was unable to resist asking him to play her something.

Before he could manage only a small selection of songs, now he played Chopin's Fourth Ballade with ease, with a grace that made it look so elementary. Spencer had a way of getting lost in the things that he loved. It was telling, the way his eyes seemed to see far beyond the room, the mixture of delight and intensity that played on his features as his hands worked away at the keys. Elegant, lovely; the things he could do and the things he was.

"How long would it take the average person to learn something like that?"

Spencer tore his gaze away from the piano, though the look in his eyes remained the same, transferred to a different subject. To her. "What exactly are you asking?"

"Would you teach me?" Obviously something like Chopin didn't come overnight, unless you happened to be the man sitting across the room, but she wanted to try playing something with him. In answer, he made room for her on the armchair, and she happily squeezed in beside him. Close enough that so many points on their bodies touched in the small space, that she had to angle her elbow down so they wouldn't bump into each other.

 _Ode to Joy_ was the chosen piece. He didn't have sheet music for it nearby, but he knew it by heart. After running through the basics, which keys meant what, he tried to explain it. "The first four notes are EEFG. Middle, middle, ring, pinkie." Spencer demonstrated, and she tried to follow, the notes on her side two octaves higher. "Good. EEFG, then GFED."

"Like this?" Four more notes played out.

"It helps if you raise your wrists, like this." One arm reached around her, his hand resting over hers to manipulate her position. His hands were so much larger; long, graceful fingers that furled over hers almost completely. In that same manner, he walked her through the next few bars of music, their fingers moving at the same time. Again and again, until cacophony became harmony, and she got the piece right on her own.

When she finally did, he shifted his hand slightly to interlock their fingers. Under his touch, she could feel her skin warming and her pulse quickening. After all this time, he could still spark a visceral reaction in her. It wasn't that he made her nervous, no that feeling had long since passed. More like her body's way of recognition, of saying, _it's him_. It was the same way the air seemed to change when he walked into a room, like his presence made enough of a difference that the atmosphere itself had to take note. And it did make that much of a difference, to her at least. Whenever she found him in a crowded place, relief washed over her. Whenever he left her a late night voicemail to assure her that everything was okay in whatever part of the country he'd been gallivanting off to, she found she could rest just a bit easier.

Penelope said that their job took parts of people over time, and if they weren't careful, they could lose those parts forever. That statement haunted her, it was one of the reasons she made so much of an effort to take his mind off of work. Every breakfast outing, every afternoon spent reading or talking or wandering through the city, she took inventory of him, looking for all of the pieces that made him who he was. If ever something was off, she would be the mirror to show him how to get back. Supplemented with things like spontaneous piano concerts and visits to museums, he always found his footing again after a case.

His heart was a blueprint she had memorized. And if he lost himself, she would be there to help him find his way. She would always find him.

Spencer smiled down at her, joy dancing as plainly in his hazel eyes as it was written within Beethoven's ode. When he looked at her like that, her heart beat _doppio movimento_. She leaned her head against his shoulder, as he released her hand in order to wrap an arm around her. Like puzzle pieces they fit perfectly into place.

His apartment was beginning to feel as much her home as her own. The wall-mounted lamps, the tall windows, the red rug covering his living room floor. The bakery on the corner where the barista knew both their names, the wooden staircase leading towards his door, the many books stacked up in his bedroom. She was always going to find him, and by his side, she too was found.

* * *

Could exercise cause a heart attack? It seemed likely. Aerobic based activity was supposed to improve cardiovascular health, but in doing so stored carbohydrates were used for energy, more oxygen was needed to maintain a Target Heart Rate and over-exertion could result in the tearing of muscle fibers, tissue breakdown, and exhaustion. Lactic acid could buildup created muscle pain, soreness, and other problems.

Reid was doubled-over on the track, trying to get air into his screaming lungs and not pass out. This was torture. Surely he could have the FBI tried for cruel and unusual punishment. Whose idea was it to make fitness tests a part of field qualifications anyways? If he needed to, he was more than capable of chasing an unsub over a short distance, or running up a set of stairs to reach a victim, but never had he needed to run a mile in under six minutes, or jump hurdles, or do push-ups, or any of the other ridiculous components of the test. The test itself was more likely to kill him than any psychopath.

Even Garcia was doing better than he was, and she wasn't even a field agent. "Are you going to survive?" she asked, stretching her calves while he heaved breath after breath. "You know, maybe you should talk to that girlfriend of yours. She runs, right? Maybe she could help us out."

He gave a short, futile shake of his head. "No… way. That's a… terrible idea."

"Why? I thought you said she was, like, training for a marathon or something?"

Reid squinted in the sunlight. "A half marathon. Which is exactly why I _don't_ want to ask Bianca for help. She actually likes running. I'll end getting dragged on some long run that I can barely keep up on. Just like you don't want to ask Morgan to coach us, I don't want to ask her."

"I'm just saying, it might help." He was going to need more than help to pass this test, he needed a freaking miracle. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like Garcia was right. There was no way he could get through this without a little outside help, and Bianca knew what she was doing, at the very least.

At his wit's end, and with the date of the test quickly approaching, he gave in and asked if he could join her on her Saturday run. "Of course!" She was all too enthusiastic about it, and Reid knew he would end up regretting his decision. "But I've got the Reston Runner's Half coming up in two weeks, and Saturdays are usually my long runs. I don't think you're going to be up for doing ten miles, but I can adjust my course and meet you at your apartment after the first seven."

"Wait, you want me to run _three_ miles with you?"

"Oh, three's not so bad. I'll be tired at that point, so we can keep a slower pace. People run 5Ks all the time without training for them. Think of it this way – if you can run three miles, one mile will feel like nothing. It's all about building your endurance. Can you be ready by 7:45 that morning?" He tried to say that running _and_ an early wake-up was too much, but she insisted that it was best to get a run in before it got too hot outside.

So on Saturday morning he stood outside his building, sweatband and gym shoes and all, scanning the sidewalk for any sign of her. Just before 7:40, she turned the corner, her tee shirt a bright blue that made her easier to spot. Bianca paused the watch on her wrist to explain the route for him. They would run north towards New York Avenue, take a left turn, then another left onto 6th Street, run down past the National Gallery and the Capitol Reflecting Pool, and take a final left turn back up towards his building.

"I'll wait for you at every intersection," she promised. "Ready?" He nodded, and she started the watch again, taking off down the road. Years of cross-country had given her a graceful stride, her feet carrying her almost effortlessly down the concrete, while he felt more like a newborn giraffe trying to figure out how to use its legs – maybe more a like three-legged newborn giraffe. Before they even made their first turn he was breathing hard. At the next intersection, he asked how many miles they'd been going for. When she said almost half a mile, he wanted to just fall over right there, and refuse to move until the FBI terminated his employment.

After that, it seemed even more painful to run. How could she still look so happy while doing this? How was she still moving? At several points along 6th Street he had to stop to try and breathe, and several times Bianca doubled back to check on him. "It's easier if you just keep going," she claimed. "Once you stop it's hard to get started again." Reid just groaned and followed her down the street. It felt like they had been running for hours by the time they finally came to the Capitol building, and he had never found the white monolith to be so beautiful before that day. They were almost done.

But Bianca suddenly picked up speed. "Come on!" she shouted. "Last leg of the run, sprint to the finish!"

"I can't!" he yelled back.

"Yes you can! If you can't catch up, I won't kiss you for a week!" She started running towards the building. That taunt would have mattered very little a few years ago, but he'd become too fond of her, too dependent on being able to hold her or kiss her whenever he wanted. Gritting his teeth, he tried to force his legs to go faster, demanding his arms to pump harder. He was close, he was so close, and he if he just pushed a little bit harder –

But she had already come to a slow trot in front of his building, and from the combined force of effort and defeat, his legs gave out and he collapsed onto the sidewalk in a heap.

"Spencer!" Bianca jogged back over to him. "Are you okay?"

After helping him up the stairs, she was making French toast in his kitchen while he was moaning on the couch. "Yeah," he could hear her saying over the phone. "I think he's okay. What? Um… probably. Hang on." She walked over towards the couch. "Spencer?" When he turned his head, there was the click of her phone's camera, but he was too tired to protest. "I'll send it in just a second, Penelope. Tell the team I'm sorry for breaking your genius."

A plate of eggs and toast was set in front of him on the coffee table, and knelt down on the floor beside the sofa. "I'm sorry for wearing you out, my love. I was only trying to motivate you. I thought you knew I was kidding."

"Couldn't take that chance," he muttered. As far as motivation went, it worked well. Maybe he should just ask the PT instructor if he could bring her along. "I don't think I can move," Reid complained. He was well aware of how pathetic he sounded, but exercise had that effect on him.

She just laughed at his melodramatic lament. "So what are you going to do for the rest of the day?"

"Nothing, I guess. Just lay here until I can feel my legs again."

Bianca leaned in, pressing her lips to his cheek, just shy of the corner of his mouth. "Does this count as nothing?" she asked.

He placed a hand on the side of her face, pulling her closer. "This is my favorite kind of nothing."

* * *

Bianca folded a black dress neatly before adding it to the suitcase sitting on her bed. In two days she would boarding a plane for Amsterdam, this time not for two years but one week. As part of the case against Boko Haram, her professor wanted her to travel with one of the lawyers to meet with the ICC. There, they were to present their findings in order to advocate for the Chibok kidnappings being classified as crimes against humanity.

"How long have you known about this trip exactly?" Spencer asked her from where he stood near her closet.

"About a month or so?"

"And you just now decided to start packing?"

"Not everyone has a go-bag, you know." She was terrible about packing ahead, preferring to wait until just before to decide what she wanted to take with her. For just seven days, she didn't need much, but she liked to make sure that she had a few extra outfits, just in case.

Spencer offered to come over and help – though she _had_ bribed him with coffee – so she could spend more time with him that day and less time trying to pack her suitcase. In the last year, she had made short trips to visit her New York friends, and even once out to Italy for Eva and Lorenzo's wedding, but it felt strange to being flying back to the Netherlands for the first time since returning home.

How far they'd come since then.

She could still recall the feeling of sitting in the airport and yearning to see him one last time, after such a difficult goodbye. This time, he wasn't standing outside her apartment and breaking up with her, but rather in her bedroom and trying to help her find a sweater. "Hey!" A cry of indignation came from the closet, and Bianca turned to see what had happened. He was holding up a gray cardigan, thick and cable-knit, from a hanger. "Isn't this _mine_?" he asked.

She blushed. That was the one she taken with her when she moved. "I may have borrowed it," she replied meekly. A relic of years past, a remembrance of the man she had left behind. It was a small comfort, on lonely nights in The Hague when she'd slipped it on and wished that the person whose arms had previously occupied those sleeves was there to keep her company instead.

"If this was a library book, you'd be paying a very steep fine," Spencer noted, examining the article of clothing before setting it on the bed beside her.

"I'm making you coffee, aren't I?" she teased, reaching for his hand.

He gave her an expression of mock-seriousness. With as much formality as he could muster he said, "I suppose I can make an exception this time, _Miss Brown_."

His somber face gave way to a grin, and she elbowed him in the side playfully. "Hey now. In a few months I'm going to graduate from law school, and you'll have to start calling me _Doctor_ Brown." Bianca liked the way it sounded, Dr. Brown and Dr. Reid, as though their last names were finally equal.

Spencer removed his cardigan from the hanger and folded it carefully, setting it inside her suitcase. Packing a little part of himself away. "Oh, I don't know about that," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. "What? You don't think I'll graduate?"

He froze for a split second, before pulling his mouth up in a comically froglike look. "Of course I do. I was only kidding. You'll make a great Doctor of Law."

"And when someone on a plane asks if there's a doctor onboard, we can both answer."

"I think that would be false advertising."

With his help, she was packed much faster than usual. Both her suitcase and her backpack were ready to go, and as promised she poured him a cup of coffee, shaking her head in amusement as he dumped several sugar packets into it.

It was always hard, being apart. When he left on a case, she missed him until he came home and she knew he was safe again. Flying somewhere was always exciting for her, but she wanted the two of them to travel somewhere together for once.

"I'm going to miss you," he said, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

"I'm only going away for a few days," she replied. What could possibly go wrong in such a short timespan? Still, Spencer looked a little dejected. She had gotten used to him jet-setting off to solve mysteries, but she herself had only flown away a handful of times. Bianca was the time traveler's wife, always waiting for her Doctor to come back home to her; now she was asking him to wait for her. She reached out to stroke his cheek. "I'll be home before you know it," she promised. And then, "I love you."

His frown turned upwards in one of the uneven, asymmetrical smiles she adored. "I love you too." Wrapping her arms around him, she kissed him right on his crooked, perfect mouth.

* * *

It was blindingly bright. Why was it so bright? He was having a hard time figuring it out. That was weird – his brain usually didn't move so slowly. The pain bloomed in his neck, a burst of red, and he remembered: he'd been shot.

It came in snippets; dark night, a man running, the sound of a teakettle, Alex calling him Ethan. Who was Ethan? No, wait, go back to the teakettle. They were in Texas outside a diner, why had he heard a teakettle? Had he imagined it? She made tea for him sometimes, in the shiny red kettle on her apartment stove. Bianca. Where was she? Far away, flying somewhere else.

Pain again, sharper. Everywhere. Was he dying? He couldn't die, no he _could not_ die, not yet. Not now. Not without telling her. He needed to tell her, he needed to tell her, she had to know. Was it still in his bag? Where was his bag? He needed it.

He needed her.

 _"I just keep thinking you're going to disappear. That you'll leave me behind."_

Someone was saying something to him, and everything was getting blurry. His eyes felt so heavy. Maybe just for a little while, he could sleep. No, not yet. He couldn't sleep yet, not until he told her. Not until she knew. He needed her. How was he supposed to reach her?

 _"You're always with me. And I'll always come back to you."_

If he died now, she would never know. If he died, she would be the one to find his bag. She would find only the book, and she would let him slip away presuming that his heart still resided in those pages and only in those pages. That wasn't true, that wasn't true but if he died she wouldn't find the box, wouldn't understand it. Without him there would be nobody to explain to her what that box meant.

It sounded like a teakettle. Why? Was it the gun? The sound had come just before the shot, before the pain. It seemed possible. Morgan was there. It occurred to him that maybe he should try to tell Morgan. Maybe the teakettle would make sense to Morgan.

The teakettle. She made tea for him sometimes. The kettle was red, and when she made him tea it was to try and take away his pain, not cause it. Would Morgan understand that? If he told him about the teakettle, would Morgan also understand that he was talking about Bianca? Would he help her to find the box? The box was in his bag, but he didn't know where his bag was.

Where was Alex? Was she okay? There were too many questions overloading his mind, and not enough time to process. The hurt kept interrupting him. Alex had called him Ethan. Who was Ethan? She wasn't married to an Ethan. She was married to a James. Alex was married to James.

The teakettle. Was the teakettle relevant to the case? Or only to him? The teakettle was red. She made him tea. Would he ever have the chance to sit with her on a sofa with mugs of tea in hand? He liked those talks they had, conversations over tea. Those words always meant something, and after the words came the silence. The silence fell because he was holding her, or she was kissing him, or they were just lying together and drinking in the presence of the other.

When had they done that last? She made him coffee, before she left. There was coffee and his sweater in her closet, and then she had kissed him. Was that the last time? That couldn't be the last time.

He didn't want it to be the last time. She needed to know. He had to tell her. Where was his bag? Where was the box? It was getting dark. His eyes were getting heavy.

It sounded like a teakettle. Where was the teakettle? Where was the tea? Where was she?

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Spencer's string of unfortunate events has given me the chance to write from some unique perspectives: deep in grief, high, and now with a bullet through his neck. We're coming to the end of Season 9, with plenty of questions and the last puzzle piece...**

 **A big big thank you to all my wonderful readers! Thanks to DeliciousAudrey, sinfullywicked, Daenys, katieroseanne, robinmathis1, Music4ever19, tigerfan24, and Half Winged Angel in Despair for favoriting/following this story!**

 **And as always, to ahowell1993, Sue1313** (oh thank you! I'm glad you think so :) Haha, from what we've seen of his apartment on the show, they would probably have to get a house at some point - there's hardly any room left with all the books and armchairs!), **dianakotori** (Henry is just precious. Every scene he's in is cuter as a result. I'm glad the chapter length was a good thing! Thanks!), **toxic click** (thank you!), **Love-Fiction-2016, and ripon** (haha!) **: thank you from the bottom of my writer's heart for taking the time to write a review, and for being so wonderful. I appreciate each and every one of you.**


	29. 29) Answers

Bianca had nearly dropped the phone, her knees buckling. "Spencer's been shot," JJ explained.

" _What?_ " There was no way she had heard that correctly. She righted herself, gripping the railing to her left. The airport was noisy, perhaps she had misunderstood between the intercom announcements and surrounding conversations.

"It was pretty touch and go, but they think he's going to pull through." They _think_? As in, there was a chance he might _not_. "He's in surgery right now, Garcia's on her way here to stay with him." Dating an agent, she'd known that the possibility he could get hurt out in the field would always be there, but there was no way it had actually happened this time. And yet, it had. Hundreds of miles away in Texas, while she was supposed to be boarding a plane across the ocean, he was in a hospital with a severe gunshot wound.

It wasn't even a question, what to do next.

As soon as they hung up, she turned around halfway through the security line, and tore her way back through the airport. So many runs she had been on, but she couldn't seem to make her feet move fast enough over the ground, her suitcase bumping on the ground behind her. At the ticket counter she tried to explain the situation in a breathless rush of words. After a frantic exchange, tears, and paying twice as much as the ticket was worth, she found herself on a tiny charter plane headed for Texas.

It was cold on the little plane, and sparsely populated, though she was one of the only passengers not sleeping at this late hour. How had things gone so wrong? Only two days ago, he'd been standing in her bedroom and helping her pack. Kissing her goodbye after being summoned away on a case. What if it was the last time she saw him? The last time she heard him laugh or held his hand. She wasn't ready for lasts, not when she'd been looking forward to so many firsts with him. She wanted more time with him. Time to move in with him, to travel to new places together, to wander through the parks in the fall. She wanted to write him poems and read them to him, to cook breakfast together in a house they could call their own. She wanted to fall asleep in the same bed and stay up all night talking. She wanted all of those things, but only with him. Always with him.

Once back on the ground she hailed a cab and directed him to the West County Medical Center. She didn't even have enough strength to pray, all of her energy was focused on not crying and not yelling at the driver to go faster.

There was no way she could lose him, not now, not after everything they'd survived together. Not a wish, but a _need_ she had to be by his side, to make sure he was okay. _He'll be okay. He has to be okay. He's Spencer. He'll make it._ Against the chill of the night air, she pulled her sweater – his sweater, the one he'd packed for her – tighter around her body, repeating those words in her mind, searching for any form of security she could find.

The hospital was imposing, a looming tan-brick structure. In those walls, life began and ended. Lives were saved and lost, and so much could hang in the balance from the moment one entered through the doors. Hurrying out from the taxi she sprinted into the lobby, her suitcase still in tow. She had nowhere else to put it. There were people milling about the front desk, families sitting in chairs and nurses dashing in this direction or that. It was overwhelming, and she wasn't sure entirely where to go or what to ask, until she spied a familiar face.

Morgan was waiting for her, and he waved her over, led her up the stairs. He seemed calm, and the air of ease the agent maintained helped ease her worries a little bit. "He's in room 202," was all he needed to say. Bianca took off and didn't stop running until she reached the door. Spencer was there, reclining in a hospital bed, gauze around his neck. She stepped inside, dropping her things in a heap by the chair as he studied her curiously.

"Hey," he said, his voice hoarse and weak. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be on a plane."

"I _was_ supposed to be on a plane. That's not important right now. Spencer, are you okay?"

"I got shot."

A shaky laugh left her throat. "Yeah, I can see that. I mean, how are you feeling?"

"No painkillers, so, I'm not great." He looked awful, his eyes heavy and his face pale. "But I don't want you to worry about me." It was all too familiar, Spencer in a gown, hooked up to an IV and monitors. On the little table next to his bed were two cups of Jell-O – cherry, his favorite – and four _Doctor Who_ figurines, most likely the work of Penelope. Good Doctors for her good Doctor.

Bianca shook her head, sighing. "We've spent too much time in hospital rooms this year." Sitting down in the chair beside his bed, she curled her feet underneath her and listened as he gave her the abridged version of what happened. It was worse than he was letting on, she could tell, and there was a pang in her chest when she realized how _close_ to losing him she had come.

Not only had he been shot, but he'd been hunted down by a corrupt deputy, and then nearly killed by a nurse. Garcia had saved his life, and she made a note to buy Penelope flowers and as many red velvet cupcakes as possible.

"When are you leaving for Amsterdam then?" he asked.

She touched his hand lightly. "I'm not. I'm not going anywhere, not while you're hurt."

"But your class…" The notion that she would willingly leave after discovering he'd been gravely injured was absurd to her.

"It can wait," she told him. "Everything else can wait. You're the most important thing in my life." Too many times, too many times already she had nearly lost him for good. After everything they had been through, she couldn't bear the thought of a world without him in it. He _was_ the world, her whole world.

Her words seemed to have an odd effect on him, for he sat up suddenly, wincing. "My bag," he said. "I need my bag."

Bianca surveyed the room until she found his messenger bag in a corner. Morgan must've left it there for him. "What do you need?" she asked, picking it up. She started to open the flap of the leather bag. "I'll get it for you."

"No! No!" he cried. "Just, um, just hand it to me. Please." With a raised eyebrow, she tentatively moved back towards him, giving him the bag and taking a seat once again. What was so urgent that he himself had to get it? His next request was even more confusing. "Now, uh, close your eyes." Hesitantly, she did so.

There was the sound of objects being shuffled, the bag being pushed aside, and then, "Okay. You can open them now."

She wasn't sure exactly what she had been expecting, but he didn't appear to be holding anything at all. There must've been something in that satchel to make him feel a bit better, but if anything he looked worse. His hands shook, he seemed anxious, and his eyes searched her face; what he was looking for, she wasn't sure. "There's something I need to tell you," he said.

"What's going on?" she asked. Only a few minutes ago had she arrived, and now he was making strange demands.

"Please just come here." Skeptically she rose, and stood next to his bed, her fingers running over the edge of his sheets. He inhaled slowly, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. In an effort to calm him down, she reached for his hands, rubbing small circles on his sweating palms.

"I – I'm not good at these sorts of things," he said. "I mean, I know what I want to say, I had a whole speech planned and I even memorized every word, but it's the actual _saying_ it that's so hard for me. I've never been good at that exactly. But you already know that." He was rambling now.

"Spencer, whatever it is, you can tell me." She was trying to read him, but coming up blank. A moment ago he was so calm, what was making him so nervous now?

"All of that… all of those things I had planned out don't really fit now, but I want to say something I mean, I feel like I should." Was he going to tell her he'd used Dilaudid again? Had something happened on the case, other than getting shot? Was he going to ask her to leave again? She held her breath as he continued. "I just – I just need you to know that you're still the brightest thing in my world. I see so much darkness every day, and through it all you've been a living light for me."

He gripped her hands firmly now, speaking so gently, and she could feel water rising in her eyes as she willed herself not to cry. No matter what he was going to tell her, she was not going to cry. "You always chase the darkness away, and you make every day something beautiful. You light up everything with your love. And there's so many other things I could say, that I was going to say, but it just seems so silly now. There's only thing that really matters…"

He pulled his hands from hers abruptly. From under the blankets, he withdrew a small velvet box. Still puzzled, she frowned at him, but before she could ask why he was saying these things, and why he was so uncharacteristically jumpy, he held it up to her. "I – I would get down on one knee but… I can't." Her stomach dropped and time slowed to a crawl in that tiny hospital room.

 _Oh_. And also, _oh god._

"Bianca Brown? Will you marry me?" She registered vaguely that he had opened the box, but she wasn't looking, she was too focused on than man holding the box and trying to process the words that had just come from his mouth.

The tears were coming in earnest now and she couldn't explain them – there were few moments in her life that had felt this happy, many of them involving Spencer, and there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to spend all of her days by his side. Maybe it was the knowing that drew the tears; knowing everything that had led the two of them to that very moment, the winding and long road full of so much joy and so much pain.

Her eyes met his, and she realized he was still staring at her. He swallowed hard, waiting, and it occurred to her that she should probably say something.

"Yes," she choked out. "Of course."

"Oh thank god," he breathed, stretching over the side of the bed to wrap his arms around her shaking frame. She buried her face into his hospital gown, trying to stop crying as she reminded herself that, yes, this was _real_ and this was happening and he was here. "For a second I was worried you might say no."

She gave a half-hearted laugh, because the notion was just so far-fetched and impossible. Pulling back to look at him, she asked, "Why on earth would you think that?"

"I don't know. I was just scared. More than scared. I was terrified. That was awful. The longest two minutes of my life. We should really get rid of that custom – which reminds me…" They were both smiling now, and he fiddled with the box again. "I should probably give you this."

He opened the box back up, but it was empty. His eyes went wide, and he blinked at it, confused. "Wait, that can't be right." He checked the blankets and sheets around him, seemingly panicked. "Hang on. What's that?" He reached behind her ear to reveal the ring, grinning. "I practiced that trick with Henry," he admitted, slipping it on her finger. "This wasn't exactly what I had planned, but I wanted to make this at least a little magical."

The ring was delicate and plain, a small circle of rose gold that held a gem which practically seemed to glow. It was a warm golden-orange, with hints of something within it that made her think of flickering candlelight. "It's beautiful," she said. "What is it though?"

"It's a sunstone. Named so because in the light, the gem looks like it's on fire. I know a diamond is more traditional, but this just seemed… right." Something like sunshine for the woman who brought light to every corner of his universe.

"This is wonderful." She laced her fingers through his again, and for a second all she wanted to do was capture that moment in her mind.

"Not really," he said quietly. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I've been planning it for weeks. I would tell you I was away on a case, and then I was going to surprise you at the airport right when you got off the plane, and I was going to have flowers and it was going to be perfect."

Bianca smiled at him, brushing the water from her eyes. "Nothing about us is perfect. We've never been a _normal_ couple. But I wouldn't have it any other way." Perfect, normal, none of that mattered to her. All she needed was him, safe and healthy and by her side. As long as she had that, everything was right in the universe, if only for a minute. "Do you know I love you, Spencer Reid?"

"I should hope so," he whispered back. He leaned in closer, their mouths meeting in a deep kiss. Just as she started to put her arms around him, there was a low, loud whistle.

Her eyes flew open, and they both turned towards the direction of the sound. Standing in the open doorway was the entire BAU team. Garcia was elbowing Morgan, evidently the culprit, in the side; everyone else was looking on with a smile. Color flooded her cheeks, but even that couldn't steal the happiness from the moment.

"Oh finally!" Garcia exclaimed. "I was wondering when you would finally ask!"

Bianca looked over at her friend, surprised. "Wait, you knew about this?"

Penelope laughed. "Well, I may or may not have noticed that a certain doctor made a fairly expensive purchase at a shop that primarily sells engagement rings. I made my own inferences from there." It wasn't easy for the analyst to keep a secret so long, but by some untapped source of patience, she'd managed for this long.

When a few doctors forced them out to check on their patient, the team ventured down to the cafeteria for cups of coffee. Only Alex remained, lingering outside Spencer's door with her.

"Congratulations," she said. "And I'm sorry for the circumstances. It was my fault - he took that bullet for me."

The concern on her face was clear, a mix of regret and shame. Then there was the way she worried over Spencer, the way he spoke of her so fondly. If Bianca didn't know any better, she would've mistaken the two for mother and son.

"It's not your fault," Bianca replied. "Alex, he thinks very highly of you. And he cares about you. Of course he would protect you. That's his job. You would've done the same for him. And as for the circumstances?" She paused, glancing back towards room 202. "Honestly, none of that is important. He's going to be okay. That's all that matters. And he's going to be okay because you were there to help him."

Alex gazed at her for a long moment, a bittersweet smile on her face. "You really love him, don't you?"

"More than I even know how to say." The poet, at a loss for words when it came to him. There were some feelings that simply couldn't be explained, never in any way to do the original emotion justice.

"I'm glad you have each other. Take good care of him, will you? He's a very special person."

The statement seemed oddly final, but Bianca nodded, ignoring the confusion she felt. "I know. Believe me, I know." The time they had – apart and together – had taught her that long ago. There would never be anybody else quite like Spencer.

After the rest of the team went back to the hotel to sleep, she stayed with him, curling up in the hospital chair. A nurse was checking his vitals, telling him something about how much time needed to pass before he was allowed to carry things or before the pain in his neck would begin to subside.

"Don't rush it," the woman said. "With enough time, everything heals."

That got her thinking, and she frowned at the ring on her left hand, running her right index finger over it. "What's on your mind?" Spencer asked.

Bianca glanced up, realizing that the nurse was gone. How exactly to put her thoughts into words, she wasn't sure, but he was watching her now and it was terribly difficult to lie to him. "I know you already asked me, and I know I already said yes, but I was just wondering if we're really ready for this. If you're sure about this. Not even two whole years have gone by since… And we've only been dating for ten months."

Were they rushing into things? Did he somehow feel obligated to ask her? Rarely did she allow her mind to wander that far into the future when it came to their relationship, but from time to time she found herself wondering what it would be like to spend every day, every year together. To marry him, to move in with him. Happiness. That's what she thought it would be like. Bliss.

"That's true," he admitted. "But we've been close since March, that brings us to about a year and five months; statistically, the average American couple is engaged after a mere twenty-five months of dating. Really, if you think about it, I've known you for almost four years, and that's more than enough time to for me to now that how I feel about you isn't going to change. I'm not going to feel this way about anyone else. After Maeve, I didn't think I would ever be able to feel that way at all again. I didn't plan on it, but I'm positive that this is what I want, and after nearly dying, I just didn't want to wait any longer."

There was no doubt in her mind what she felt for him, but she never wanted him to feel indebted to her in any way. To know he wanted this just as much came as a great comfort. He wanted a future with her, and now they could really begin to build one. That night he feel asleep quickly, aided by what little medication he actually agreed to take. She stayed up a little while longer, listening to the sound of his breathing slow to a gentle rhythm, unable – and a little unwilling – to take her eyes off of him. It seemed impossible to sleep when she was already in the midst of a dream, a wonderful one she wouldn't have to wake up from.

To her great relief, Hotch agreed to let her fly back with them the next day. Bianca wasn't sure she could stand to be away from Spencer for even a minute. They left as soon as he was discharged, and she found herself unable to stifle a laugh as he pouted when Alex and Garcia forced him into a wheelchair. On the plane though, all the chaos of that night caught up with the two of them, and she fell asleep sitting up on the long seat, Spencer dozing under a blanket with his head in her lap; the cozy portrait of a happy couple, one that prompted a few photos snapped from Morgan's phone for future teasing.

When they landed, Alex offered to take Spencer back to his apartment. "You must be tired," she told Bianca. "I promise I'll look after him. I'm guessing you have a call to make to your professor." After a long look at Blake, Spencer agreed, to her surprise.

"You go home," he said. "If something comes up, I'll call you. But I think I should go with Alex."

* * *

That night, he watched as one of his best friends, the teammate who best understood him, walked away. He had seen too many people come and go on that team, and he recognized the signs when someone was ready to leave. Reid only wished that he could've said more to her, thanked her for more than just being there for him when he woke up.

Alex gave him advice about Maeve, she helped him to work through his thoughts, and she was almost maternal towards him – that made sense now, of course. But he was still grateful that while his own mom was miles away, there was someone who he had come to rely on for things that moms typically did for their sons – encouraging him, helping him with relationships, in some ways even taking a certain responsibility for him. From that text at the restaurant – _she will love you_ – to assuring him that Bianca didn't see him as a burden. She was gone now too though, gone like Elle and Emily before her, and Reid wondered if it would still be okay to call her sometimes, when there were things he needed a mother's advice on.

How many people could he carry around in his heart like that? In a way, his messenger bag had become his heart. It used to store only his mind – case files, books, pens, things of that sort. Now four people inhabited the pockets inside.

First had been Maeve, _The Narrative of John Smith_ never far from him, the only real thing that he had left of her. When he was home, it sat on his shelf, and when he was away it came with him. She came with him. Bianca noticed it once, and he worried she would be upset, but she had merely set back within the flaps and hugged him tightly, some sort of understanding passing in that embrace.

After Maeve had been his mother, one of the postcards from the Grand Canyon Diana had mailed to him a small token of her improving health. Third had been Bianca. A few weeks ago, he had moved the velvet box from his sock drawer to the bag, not yet certain when he wanted to ask her that question. If he carried Maeve with him, it seemed right to bring Bianca along too, if only so that his fingers could find the velveteen fabric to quell his fears and assure him that soon enough, they would be together for good. Of course, the box was empty now, no ring inside. He wanted to keep it there though, because she had chosen him, had said yes. There was always the option of putting something of hers inside, perhaps one of her poems.

And now, Alex. Blake's FBI badge had been tucked into the bag, and he wasn't sure when she had managed to do so. Was it at the hospital? On the plane ride home? Maybe when she had helped him up the stairs. Did she know that he kept those mementoes in his bag? It didn't seem likely, but his mom once told him that sometimes, a mother just knows. _He would've been a lot like you_. All he could think was that if Diana had full control over her mind and her body, she probably would've been a lot like Alex Blake.

A single day could so much, joy and grief alike, wonderful beginnings and painful goodbyes, angels and demons in equal kind.

For a few hours, he sat in silence, mourning the loss of yet another friend – another family member – wanting just to be alone. Eventually, he came to two conclusions: the first, that he needed to sleep; the second that if he had learned anything in the last year, it was that sometimes when he wanted nothing more than to be sad alone, those were times he needed someone most. Reid found his phone again, and dialed her number.

"Bianca? Can you come over after all? I don't want to be alone tonight."

* * *

Once he was fully healed from the incident, they finally took the trip he had promised her ages ago: to Las Vegas, to meet his mother. They left early Saturday morning together from Dulles Airport, and Reid thought his girlfriend – no, he reminded himself once again, she was his _fiancée_ now, and those three syllables made his chest swell with pride because she had chosen _him_ – seemed even more excited than he was. Visiting his Diana always filled him with a sense of anticipation and apprehension. As much as he loved her, he worried that there would come a day when even on her medication she would forget him. Bianca though, had no inhibitions, and practically skipped through the airport.

"I just can't believe that I _finally_ get to her meet her! After all this time, we're really going to Las Vegas," she was saying.

Beside her he was dragging his feet along the tile floor, trying to suppress a yawn. " _I_ can't believe you're not allowed to bring coffee past security. It ought to be a crime to deprive someone of caffeine this early in the morning."

She threaded her arm through his, giggling. "My love, I promise to buy you some coffee as soon as we find our gate." Bolstered by that guarantee, he jogged down the wide corridor to find the gate marked C24, fortuitously situated right next to the Starbucks. All he wanted was to lay down across the seats, but he found himself disappointed by the immobile armrests preventing him from doing so, slumping down in one near the large glass window. True to her word, Bianca soon joined him, carrying drinks in both hands. She sat down sideways in his lap, bending her knees so her feet rested on the seat next to him.

"This one is yours." In his hand she set a warm coffee cup, smelling wonderfully of espresso and something sweet. "Caramel mocha, with lots of whipped cream."

"Thank you," he said, turning her chin so he could kiss her, and ignoring the middle-aged businessman gawking at them from the opposite gate. He wished there more words for love in the English language so he could express how much he adored her without repeating himself. If there was anything he had learned in the last year though, it was that there were half a million ways to say " _I love you_ " without actually saying so. Love was hidden in other words, like when she told him to drive safely, or he asked her if she had eaten; in all the _good mornings_ and _good nights_ and _I missed yous_ that passed between them. Sometimes, you didn't need to say anything at all, love was apparent in gestures too, in a kiss or an embrace, but also in the coffee she brought for him and books he read with her and in all the times they had both decided to stay.

Bianca rested her head on his shoulder, drinking iced tea while he refueled his depleted energy supply until the plane began to board. They strolled down the jetway together, and he was still pleased every time his right hand found her left, as it now did, and the metal ring brushed his fingers. It meant yes, a reminder that she'd chosen him after all. For the rest of forever. Reluctantly Reid let go so she could step through the narrow door of the plane just before him.

There were several things that made them all the more aware of the difference between his height and her short stature. When he spotted her in the aisle next to their seats, she was trying in vain to toss her duffel bag into the overhead bin. It was amusing to see her there, the hem of her sweater rising slightly as she hopped up and down, not wanting to swing it in and risk hitting someone. He caught the duffel mid-jump, taking it from her hands and tossing it with ease up into the bin beside his leather suitcase before he slid into the seat beside her.

Legroom, that was another disparity in their heights. She could push her backpack under the seat in front of her and still have more than enough room, but the cramped arrangement forced his knees against the back of the preceding chair. It was some consolation that she could still lean down to hand him snacks a book to distract him from lack of space.

Traveling with someone was an opportunity to learn things that otherwise didn't come up in discussion. After several flights across countries, she was a pro at getting her shoes and belongings into a security bin, while he was still fumbling to untie his sneakers by the time she had collected her belongings on the other side of the scanner. She preferred the window seat, while he was happy to take the aisle. And she chewed gum during takeoff, in contrast to his own preference for Starburst. Any opportunity he saw to eat candy, he seized.

"There's something I was thinking about last night," Bianca said, as the plane ascended.

"What's that?" He popped another Starburst into his mouth with a glance her way. Outside the window, the sky was the pale blue shade of mid-morning and not a cloud in sight.

"It was something you said just before I left for Amsterdam actually. We were in my bedroom, and I told you that when I graduated from Georgetown, you would have to call me Doctor Brown. You just said, _I don't know about that._ Was that because you were planning to propose?"

He beamed at her, running his fingertips over her left hand. "Of course. I hadn't meant to let something like that slip out, but I was sort of hoping to call you Doctor _Reid_." A notion he hadn't considered before suddenly occurred to him, and he backpedaled quickly. "But, I mean, if you don't want to change your name, that's completely fine. I'll understand." Perhaps it had been rude to assume she would automatically take his name.

"Spencer, are you kidding? I've been dreaming of getting rid of my last name for ages. A surname is supposed to show what family you belong to. As fond as I am of the alliteration, I haven't felt like a part of the Brown family for a very long time. I want to belong in your family, permanently."

She had always belonged there, but he was more than happy to make it official. "So we'll be Doctor and Doctor Reid then." How wonderful it sounded to say that. They would share a name and a home and so many years, together.

The ground below faded until roads and houses were mere dots and lines through the window. They settled in for the long flight, and he started on his small pile of books to the pass the time. The third book was hers, the same one Garcia had given to him months earlier. He knew all the words by heart, but he still loved to read the words she'd used, run his finger over words she had penned in a city of canals and cobblestones. By the time he opened it, Bianca was leaning against him, engrossed in Nabokov's _Pale Fire_. One of the flight attendants paused as she made her way down the aisle, glancing at them wistfully, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.

"You and your girlfriend make quite a lovely couple," she said.

Reid tried hold back a grin. "Actually, she's my fiancée."

"Well then, congratulations."

It was so easy to introduce her as such, natural even. Now, he only needed to introduce her to the only other woman in his life who mattered quite that much.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So so sorry that this chapter has taken so long to post! Nearly all my chapters are written months in advance, but I was so busy with work and life that I didn't have a chance to post it. So here it is! Thanks for being patient with me, my beloved readers.**

 **I spent so much time trying to come up with the perfect proposal scene, without making it overly cheesy. But then I finished watching Season 9, and it just seemed absolutely right. With everything that they've been through, what are the odds they manage a picture-perfect proposal? It seemed far more likely for something to go terribly awry, after which Spencer would've decided that he just couldn't wait any longer to ask. Near-death experiences tend to do that to a person.**

 **Thank you to LoverofAllThingsGeeky24, littlelightning, 24hourcrazygirl, miller330, GiraffePanda2, KLCM1, Synchronously Anonymous, KayJane16, SpencerReidIsMyLife, WinterValentine, clarinetgirl628, XxLellian Black-GryffindorXx, Alex C, woahtherePotter, midnightabyss23, just8boutany6, mlr96, Dark Angel 792, Nightwing's Gal, Nakomi, soul-reaver-queen, Marissa Angelique, Ch3rryies, XxPaperbackWriterxX, and PixieCharm for following/favoriting this story!  
**

 **To ahowell1993** (I think those two are just naturally parental haha. And you were quite right in your prediction as well!), **Sue1313** (thanks! It seemed natural for JJ, communications queen, to make the call), **dianakotori** (it's such a good episode! And thank you! Oh I'm so glad you liked the teakettle scene. It was so interesting to write, and I'm glad it communicated everything it needed to. It was very much a stream-of-consciousness moment for him) **FreckledFreakGirl11** (haha I hope that's a good thing! Though I suppose if the story is able to bring out such strong emotions, then it is), **hfcmfan2013** (writing the running scene was so much fun. Thank you so much - I feel so honored! I hope I'll continue to come up with chapters worth reading), **Love-Fiction-2016** (thanks!), **Guest** (why thank you!), **and SpencerReidIsMyLife** (sorry it took so long!) **; thanks for leaving reviews and being so wonderful. I'm so very grateful for your feedback.**

 **Angels and Demons, questions and answers. Onwards to Season 10 and Chapter 30! Also known as the chapter where the other thing ahowell1993 kept asking me about finally happens.**


	30. 30) Like Gravity

It was four hours before they landed at McCarran International Airport, though due to the time change only one hour had passed since takeoff. He purchased another coffee on their way out of the terminal, and took a cab to the hotel they had booked for the weekend. Bianca wanted to go straight to see his mom, but he insisted on dropping their bags in their room first.

"Besides," he added, as they walked into the lobby. "It's just now 10:30 AM. Visiting hours won't start for another thirty minutes, and it's going to take at least that long to get over there." She relented, and he took the time to dump his clothes from his satchel onto the bed in order to lighten the load. He had booked a room with one bed, the cheapest option, but the concierge had informed him they had made a mistake, and this was the only room available.

After unpacking what little they had brought and shedding the sweaters they no longer needed in the Nevada heat, they finally caught a taxi to the Bennington Sanitarium. "Just remember that she might be having a bad day. She might be seeing things, or she might be agitated, and she's always wary meeting a someone new for the first time, so it's nothing personal, and -"

"I know," she said. "You've told me about her before. It's okay." Still, Reid couldn't help but notice the way she anxiously smoothed down the edge of her skirt, but she told him that was just because she was meeting his mother, and not because of her condition.

An orderly at the front desk asked first who they were there to visit – "Diana Reid," he answered, as the woman's eyes scanned the list - and then for their IDs.

After a brief inspection, she passed them back across the counter. "You're on the list, but _she's_ not." The orderly gestured at Spencer and then Bianca in turn.

"It's okay," he assured the stern-looking woman. "She's my fiancée." Bianca waved at the woman with a smile, the band of the engagement ring visible on her hand. With physical evidence, the woman allowed them in.

They were led by a nurse with close-cropped dark hair, who introduced himself as Kenneth, down the hall to the large room where patients were beginning their daily routines. In an armchair facing the window, he immediately spotted his mother, gazing out over the grounds of the facility. "There she is. If you need anything, just let me know," Kenneth said, before leaving them. He swallowed hard, preparing himself for whatever state his mother might be in, and it was Bianca's hand who grabbed his this time, squeezing gently in silent encouragement.

Reid stepped forward, leading her towards Diana, but instructed her to wait for his cue before coming into the woman's line of sight. Gingerly he made his way in front of the person who had raised him, careful not to startle her. "Mom?" he asked softly. Her blue eyes came to life at the sound of his voice, and she turned to greet him.

"There you are," she said. "They told me you would be coming. It's about time." He felt like a child again, being scolded for missing curfew.

"I'm sorry. You know how busy my job is. If I could get more time off, I would… it's just sort of unconventional. "

"That's because you're working for the Feds. They keep you close so they can spy on you." She narrowed her eyes at him, and he knew that convincing her otherwise was impossible. Besides, there were more important matters to attend to.

He knelt down beside his mother. "It's okay, my friends take good care of me. Actually, uh, part of the reason I came here today was so I could introduce you to someone." She raised a skeptical eyebrow, and he pressed on. "I've been wanting to do this for a while, but things kept getting in the way." Things being breakups, unsubs, and drug relapses. "She's very special to me."

" _She?_ " Her surprise was obvious, though he didn't take it to heart. He had never given her reason to believe such a meeting would take place, that was all.

With a slight nod in response to her question, he glanced behind them and beckoned Bianca over. She walked over meekly, a nervous smile on her face and pink blooming in her cheeks as she came to stand beside them. "Mom, this is Bianca Brown. Bianca, this is my mother, Diana Reid." He watched as Diana took in the sight of the her; moving closer to Spencer so the older woman could see her clearly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. He's told me wonderful stories about you."

"Stories?" his mother asked.

Bianca nodded. "Yes. He says you love stories. You must have been the one who taught him to love books so much." She was trying to make Diana feel more at ease, choosing her words with extreme care so as not to say anything that could upset her.

"I'm a professor," Diana said, and he caught her use of the present tense. _I am_ not _I was._ "I teach 15th century literature. Have you studied medieval texts?"

His mother gave Bianca a furtive, curious glance. "Not many, but I've read Pizan's _Le livre de chemin de long estude_ , and most of François Villon's French ballads. Oh, and in college I read _The Canterbury Tales_."

Diana nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "Most people haven't even heard of Pizan. She was one of the few female poets at that time. Which of the _Tales_ is your favorite?"

" _The Franklin's Tale_ ," Bianca replied, without hesitation. "It's a story that tells of so many kinds of love, and of the power of humanity and honesty to triumph in the end. Dorigen, Arveragus, Aurelius, and the magician all let their hearts lead them to give, rather than take. From the moment that Dorigen and Arveragus decided to make their marriage one of equal status, I knew it would be my favorite."

In the periphery of his vision, Reid saw her hands as she spoke. On the word _marriage_ her hand twitched ever so subtly towards him, but then she stopped herself, clenching her fingers into a fist instead. She knew to wait until he explained their relationship to his mother, but even that simple gesture tugged at his heart, to see that she wanted so badly to touch him for reassurance and confirmation. Instead, she asked, "What's your favorite?"

"Oh, that's easy. _The Wife of Bath's Tale_. It's one of the most elaborate social commentaries of that century. Intelligent enough to analyze, and ribald enough to enjoy."

His mother's mouth became the ghost of a wry smile, and for a second the conversation faltered, until he spoke just to fill the silence. "I like the _Parson's Tale_ best," he said, though Diana already knew the answer – she had been the one to first read Chaucer to him. Upon hearing her son's voice again, her face contorted in confusion. Her gaze flickered from Reid to Bianca, and back again, trying to piece together some constellation of connection between them.

"Spencer," his mother asked slowly. "How do you know this girl?"

Bianca glanced at him, her brown eyes searching him for an answer. She looked frightened, like a deer in the headlights, and he understood that it wasn't a fear of his mother, but of her disapproval. That wouldn't happen though; he would make sure of that. Two of the most important people in his life were before him, and he searched for the right words to fill in the blanks.

He wetted his lips before standing and holding his hand out to Bianca, who grasped it gratefully, returning to him like the tide to the shore, and holding on tight so as not to lose him. He sat with her on the sagging couch next to his mother's chair, their fingers laced together, and he took the opportunity to be close to her; their hips and thighs and knees touching, and had he not studied them so thoroughly he might be tempted to wonder if opposite poles were magnetically drawn together simply by a desire to keep contact, to keep saying to their partner, _I am still here._

"Mom, Bianca is a good friend of mine," Reid began. "And…" He could do this, he could get the word out, he _had_ to get that word out, the same one he had been so proud to introduce her as to everyone else. "She's also my fiancée."

Diana Reid's eyes widened as she stared at the pair of them on the couch. Bianca's left hand had gone to the base of her throat, fingering her collarbone as she sometimes did when she was nervous and needed something to keep her grounded in the present. That unconscious movement made the ring plainly visible, and he could see his mother catch a glimpse of it, proof of what he had said, just as the front desk orderly had seen. "You mean you're _engaged_?"

The way she spoke the word reminded him of the moment he had discovered Maeve had once been engaged, the shock of finding out that someone he cared about had been so close to this other person that he didn't even know existed. Spencer still sent his mother letters, but he had never mentioned his romantic relationships. At first he had been uncertain as to whether he had a future with Bianca, and then he had needed to protect Maeve, for her own safety. And then Maeve was gone, and there was no reason to write, to upset her with his loss. Since Bianca had returned, so many things had happened. It had taken nearly seven months before they finally admitted the way they felt on that park blanket, and soon after he had relapsed, and his energy had been devoted to getting clean once again.

The proposal had just been a far-off idea then, a dream of his conjured up in the early hours when he drifted out of sleep to find her sleeping beside him, staying as promised. She had stayed then, and he wanted her to stay forever. Before she came home from Italy, he bought the ring, keeping it tucked away in a velvet box deep in his drawer of mismatched socks until the moment was right. He tried to plan the perfect moment, coming up short with vague drafts of asking her in libraries and museums. When she told him she would be going to Amsterdam, he knew he wanted it be then, as she was coming home from her favorite city in the world, and there was no possible way she would be expecting him. He wanted it to take her by complete surprise, painstakingly avoiding any hint at what was to come. And being shot, well, that had certainly been a surprise.

Even then, having resolved to ask her to spend all of her days by his side, Reid had been afraid she might say no, and as much as he hated superstition, he was worried telling his mother might jinx it. But she had said yes, and so they were here, together. "Yes," he said. "I am. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about her sooner. There was a lot that happened in the last few years, and things were… complicated for a little while." That was an understatement. "I didn't want to tell you about her until I was certain. I know that you don't like change. But she – she said yes, and I want her to stay in my life. And you're a big part of my life."

The explanation hung between them, and he prayed that she would understand his hesitation. Finally she spoke. "I'm your mother. If you're going to marry someone, I want to know that she's good enough for my baby. That's my job."

Bianca tensed beside him, and he jumped to her defense. "She is, mom. She's kind and she's thoughtful, and she laughs at my jokes no matter how ridiculous they are. She always listens to me, and when she smiles, the world seems brighter. She writes poetry, and her work is so beautiful and so hopeful, and more than anything she knows what it means to love someone unconditionally."

Diana looked to Bianca, evidently wanting a response from her as well. She inhaled sharply. " _In sovereign bliss were they to share their life, not once did any anger come between. He cherished her as if she were a queen, and she was true to him eternally._ " A flash of recognition came over mother and son at the same time, both to whom the lines were familiar. They came from the end of the _The Franklin's Tale_ , when the suitor realized what a bond the married couple shared.

"All I can say," Bianca told her, "is that I love him. Very much. I could tell you where I went to school, or what I do for a living, or where I'm from in an attempt to impress you, but all that really matters is that I love him."

A long minute stretched before them, the two women meeting each other's eyes as he held his breath, and then his mother smiled. "You write?" she asked.

"Yes," Bianca replied, the tension dissipating from her muscles. "I do." And just like that, the spell was broken and all three of them relaxed. They stayed, making small talk and catching up until late afternoon, and his mother was scheduled for a therapy session.

"We can come back tomorrow," Reid offered. "And stay for a while, since you have more free time on Sundays." His mother agreed, saying that she would like that. She wheedled a promise from Bianca to bring some of her writing along next time.

They explored the city together, and Reid taught her all about how Las Vegas came to be, a vibrant example of life in the middle of an empty desert. He took her to the strip, pointing out buildings and landmarks and telling her that she had to see it at night, all light up, to really appreciate it. He rattled off the impressive list of casinos he had been banned from. As afternoon gave way to early evening, they considered staying on the strip until dark, and taking an elevator to the top of the Stratosphere Tower to see Sin City by night, but both were tired from the travel and the time change.

Dinner consisted merely of sandwiches from the hole-in-the-wall deli near the hotel, after which they decided it was time to retire to bed and catch up on the sleep they had missed that morning. 6:30 PM in Vegas was 9:30 in DC, and their early start and miles of walking had worn even Bianca out. At the sink, they brushed their teeth side by side, the act feeling quite domestic. She changed in the bathroom, he in the bedroom and, with the curtains closed and lights off, crawled into their respective beds. He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he heard the rustling of blankets from the other side of the room, and then felt his own covers being pulled back.

Reid flipped over to see her climbing in beside him. "We both sleep easier when we're together," she whispered. "And it's lonely all the way over there." He grinned as she snuggled up against him, all too keenly noticing that she wore only a loose tank top and shorts. His chest tightened at the feeling of her bare arms on his, but she was right; her presence had a calming effect on him, and as he drifted off, his last thought was that soon enough, this wouldn't be something they did on particular occasions, but every night.

* * *

Over breakfast they tried to plan their day. "If we get to Bennington around 11, we can stay until 2:30, and then catch our flight at 3, and get home around 9 PM." Spencer looked to her for approval.

"That sounds good to me," she said, stirring a bowl of disappointingly soggy oatmeal. "A busy day, but good."Perfectly content to let him arrange the logistics, it was enough for her to be along for the ride this time. This was his hometown, the place he'd grown up, and it still felt like a dream to finally be there with him after all this time. With Spencer not as her boyfriend, but her fiancé. There was a certain joy in those three syllables, and she found herself smiling each time she remembered there was a new term that applied to him now.

"I guess we'll just have to make another trip out here sometime," he replied with a smile. Bianca was more than happy to agree to that. Meeting Diana the previous day had been left her feeling lighter. For so long she had wanted nothing more than to meet his mother in person, but it wasn't until they reached the hospital that she realized it was entirely possible she wouldn't earn Diana's approval. It was different with her own family, she wasn't remotely close to either of her parents, but Spencer cared so much about his mom and Bianca desperately wanted to be liked by her.

He had taken her hand, letting her know that there was no reason to be afraid, and when Diana had finally smiled at her, she felt like she could breathe for the first time since walking through those doors. For their return visit, Bianca had brought her latest book with her to uphold her promise of letting his mom read her work, and was already thinking up a list of stories to tell her; it made the most sense to begin with the story of how they met. They were stepping out from the diner when his phone rang. Furrowing his eyebrows, Spencer answered the call, walking a few feet away from her.

"Is that Hotch?" she asked him when he came back over. He nodded, pursing his lips to the side. "Do we have to leave?"

To her surprise he shook his head. "Actually, the case is here. In Las Vegas. But they do need my help, especially now that we're down a member. It looks like I won't be able to go back with you."

"To see your mom, your mean?"

"I mean to go back to DC. I don't know how long this case could take, and we were supposed to fly back today. I won't be able to fly home with you."

"Who said I was leaving?" She wrapped her arms around his waist. "This week is a reading period for my classes, and I brought some books here with me anyways. You're never gone for more than a few days, so why I don't I just stay here? I'd rather be close to you."

He kissed the top of her head. "If you want to stay, I won't stop you." While he went off to meet the rest of the team, Bianca returned to Bennington alone. The front desk orderly waved her through – her name now added to 'the list' – and she approached the table where Diana sat slowly, as Spencer had taught her.

"Good morning," she greeted the older woman.

Diana gave her a puzzled look. "Where's Spencer?"

"He's still in the city, but he had to lend a hand with a case. I hope it's okay that I came here alone. Do you mind if I sit?" Diana demurred, and Bianca took a seat across from her. "How has your morning been?"

"It's not a bad day," Diana answered. "I was looking forward to seeing my son again, but I suppose this is a chance for you and I to get to know each other. Did you bring any of your writing?" Bianca withdrew the navy hardback from and placed it in her hands. She watched as his mother inspected the volume. "He didn't tell me you had been published. Is that him?" She tapped the picture on the cover.

"It is," Bianca answered. When she sent her editor that photo, she'd been apprehensive that it would be too easily identifiable. However, she figured it would only appear so to a small handful of people, of which she doubted would find a copy of it. Naturally she should've realized Penelope Garcia could find almost anything in this world. "All of the poems in that book, they're about Spencer, and his team. I thought you might like to have it." She knew he wrote the letters to his mother, but there was always something unique about reading the words someone else used to describe a person you cared about. Besides, it seemed like a clever way to let Diana read her work while giving her an insight into who she was and what her relationship with him was like.

Diana set the book aside for later, looking at her with scrutiny, but not without kindness. It seemed she was trying to decide what she wanted to ask. Finally she settled on, "How did you meet him?"

Bianca smiled, sitting up a little straighter. She desperately wanted Diana to like her, and that was a question she certainly knew how to answer. "Through work actually."

"But you don't work for the government, do you?" It was impossible to mistake the distrust in her voice. Briefly she wondered how Spencer had first explained to his mother that he'd joined the FBI. It couldn't have been an easy conversation.

"No. At the time I was living in New York, and working as a human rights advocate. We were having a difficult time with a case, and so we asked the FBI for help. The first day he got there was the first time we met. I bumped into him in a bookstore later."

"That's the best place to meet someone," Diana said, her blue eyes twinkling.

"I couldn't agree more. After that, I got to know him a little better. He was so… kind and so honest. And smart; but you already know those things, of course. Even after we caught the man, I couldn't stop thinking about him. We talked on the phone and visited each other a few times before I gave in and moved to DC. It was partly for my job, but I would be lying if I said he had nothing to do with it. I wanted to be around him all the time, not just for one day every few months. "

The woman nodded. "When did you know?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"When did you know it would him?" Was she asking if there was a moment when she knew he would be _the one_? Unable to come up with any other possible connotation, she tried to answer that.

"I don't think I ever did, not really." When she first knew she liked him was when she heard him explain why _Annabel Lee_ was his favorite poem. The first time she went to visit him in Washington was when she knew she was in love with him. As she sat on the train, watching the landscape speed by, and realized she had never been in such a hurry to get somewhere in her whole life.

Evidently she had understood Diana's question correctly, because she then said, "There must have been something. Even if it was only an inkling, every great love story has a moment like that."

She had to smile upon hearing his mother call their relationship a _great love story._ It was a story, wasn't it? Girl meets boy, girl loses boy. Again and again. And somehow they still manage to find their way back to each other. A story she had chronicled in letters and poems. Thinking of it in that manner brought to her mind the fragment of a cherished memory, a summer day.

"Well, there was this one time. We had been apart for a little while, and when I came home, everything was different. I thought there was no chance he would love me the way he did once. And he didn't, not at first. But then, one day, we went to a park together. We were just sitting on a blanket, reading." She could recall that afternoon as though no time had passed; the warmth of the sun, the quiet rustling of the wind through the grass, the way she struggled to get through each paragraph of her book without thinking about her feelings for him. "I couldn't stand it any longer, and when I told Spencer I still cared about him, and he said it back, I knew that we could get through just about anything, as long as we were together."

His response had shocked her that day, because she'd refused considered the possibility that he could still love her. The lying was driving her crazy, and in a fit of selfishness she had tried to cleanse her conscience. It wasn't what he said though, that gave her that clarity; rather it was what he did. As dearly as she loved words, she couldn't deny that actions still spoke volumes louder, and when she reached up to kiss him, when he didn't pull away from her – not then, and not when her lips found his – she knew that she would love him for the rest of her days.

To some extent, it had always been that way. Once upon a time in New York City, his eyes had drawn her in, and then it was his smile and his voice and the books in his hands. It wasn't possible to forget him, no matter how hard she tried. He was a novel, and she wanted to know if it was possible to be even a paragraph in his story, if he would allow her to read the chapters already written.

It was only when he let her in that she realized Spencer wasn't a single book, but a library of stories and a life lived well. Now her story was invariably connected to his, soon to be one and the same.

"Thank you," Bianca said suddenly.

Diana regarded her curiously. "What for?"

"For teaching him kindness. For endowing him with a love of books. Just… for him, I guess."

The woman leaned forward to grasp her hand. "Thank _you,_ for taking care of him. Spencer will always be my baby, but it's not possible for me to be with him all the time. It eases my worries, knowing that he has someone that loves him so much."

How she loved him, to the ends of the earth. And he loved her enough to bring her here, to let her into the most private parts of his life, the things he was so afraid to share with the world for fear of being rejected. While her own family had been less than receptive to either of them, she was relieved to find that she and Diana got along well – if for no other reason than a common love of words, books, and a one Spencer Reid.

* * *

Every second counted in a child abduction case. By the time his team landed late that afternoon, four hours had passed since the family realized their daughter was missing. He met the rest of the unit at the local police station, where Hotch brought him up to speed.

"Lillian Holbrook is a bright girl, ten years old and well-behaved. If she wasn't kidnapped by force, the unsub would need to be somebody she trusted."

"It would have to be fast," added Rossi. "There's only a ten minute window between the time she got off the bus and the time her mother got home."

Reid went with JJ to the scene of the abduction with JJ, taking note of street layout in the suburban neighborhood. It was unsurprisingly average. Picket fences, matching mailboxes, houses with swingsets and porch swings and sidewalk chalk drawings. Normal. Supposedly secure. How was it possible for a girl to go missing between the school bus stop and her house? Morgan and Rossi talked to every family on that block, but none profiled as the perpetrator.

"Any luck with the neighbors?" asked JJ. The bulletin board in the station was covered by a map, which in turn was surrounded by webs of pins and papers. Every house was marked with a list of inhabitants, their lives, occupations, and transgressions similarly noted alongside the names.

Reid shook his head. "Garcia has been helping me compile information, but nothing that would predispose any of them to this sort of offense. None of them seem to fit the specifics of the profile either." White male, late thirties to early forties, somebody who Lillian would have known or trusted. He would have to drive a vehicle capable of effectively concealing a child, and was likely a loner. Isolated, awkward, sought out the company of children. And thus far, nobody they had met matched that description.

As afternoon waned to evening, they were still searching for a break in the case. Hotch needed him with the rest of the unit, and so while Bianca kept their original hotel room, he went across town to stay with his team. They were up almost all night, building profiles and going over victimology. Garcia reviewed similar cases across the country, finding only two that seemed possibly connected. With less than six hours before the twenty-four deadline, everything was at stake.

It was then that a break in the case finally came: a neighbor who remembered seeing the school bus circle around a second time after dropping the children off.

"I'm sorry it took so long for me to remember, but it really didn't seem to strange at the moment. It's late, but you said that any information might be important, right?" Mr. Tomlinson, who lived three houses from the Holbrooks, had called them late at night with this sudden recollection.

Morgan confirmed with the man that this wasn't the usual routine, and things fell into place. Their brilliant analyst was able to link the driver as having worked in the school districts of the two former victims and with the clock ticking they raced across the desert to reach his address.

Breaking down the door, the five of them flooded inside. "Federal agents!" Rossi called. "Logan Faller, FBI!" There was the clatter of dishes shattering, and both Morgan and Hotch ran to follow Faller out the back door of his house.

Reid hoped they weren't too late. It was crushing, to come this close and still suffer a defeat. "Lillian?" His voice echoed off the walls. The remaining three agents split up, JJ checking the yard and Rossi going upstairs, while he stayed on the ground floor and checked all the small spaces.

"Out here!" JJ's shout was muffled by the distance. "I've got her!" With only hours to go before the 24-hour deadline they placed on child abduction cases, there was Lillian Holbrook tied down in the back of the school bus parked outside.. All of them were exhausted from the effort and frustration that came with chasing down a kidnapper, especially one who happened to be a school bus driver. How did people like that end up with jobs around kids? Clearly background checks were far from infallible.

The young girl was clearly traumatized, but alive nonetheless. Lillian was safely returned to her overwhelmed parents, while Faller was shut behind bars where he clearly belonged. One count of abduction with intent to inflict bodily harm, three counts of child sexual abuse, and two counts of murder. The charges alone made him shudder to think what might've happened had they not been called in.

It was nearly 2 AM by the time they finished processing everything at the station. Not wanting to wake her, Reid sent Bianca a text message, telling her to come to their hotel in the morning, that he'd convinced Hotch to let her travel back with them – after all, it wasn't like the jet was overcrowded with only five agents.

And so she met the team in the lobby that morning before they flew back. When she noticed Reid wasn't there for breakfast with them, Morgan gave Bianca a key card to go check on him. She slipped into the room quietly and sat down next to him on the bed, gently shaking his shoulder. He rolled over to face her, expecting to see Hotch or Morgan instead. "What are you doing here?" he asked, still groggy.

"You overslept," she told him. "So I came to wake you up. Though I can't say I blame you. You look awfully comfortable."

"You think so? Join me, then." With a smile, he slid his arm around her waist, tugging her down beside him. She giggled and he silenced her with a kiss. To his surprise, she moved closer, deepening the kiss and sliding her hands up his chest. It was too early for this, he thought, but then what better way to wake up than to a dream? All he could hear was the thudding of his heart and the sharp inhales she took between kisses, each one more frantic than the last. He tangled his hands in her short hair and she hummed against his mouth, a muffled sigh that washed any remaining traces of drowsiness from his mind and trained his attention clearly on her.

Her palm was pressed to his jaw, her forefingers brushing his cheek, and he came quickly to the conclusion that there was a position more conducive to kissing her. Fervently his arms searched for her, pulling her up on top of him. Her fingers were in his hair, her body against his, and her lips just below his jawline. He tried not to groan, not to make a sound as she kissed him there, slowly and precisely. Everything was warm, too warm, and there was an instinctive burn in the pit of his stomach, a yearning for her. When he could no longer stand it, he found her mouth again, tracing her bottom lip with his tongue, the faintest hint of vanilla coffee still on her breath. He was delirious with the taste of her, the sensation of her, the overwhelming desire for _her_.

Had it ever been possible to feel such longing for someone? It could only be for her, for the heart and the mind and the utter humanity that lived within this small person, the endless love she had given to him so many times over. Maybe that was what attraction did, if you adored someone so completely, it drew you to all parts of them, connecting the dots until you wanted them in every possible way. He'd always wanted her, but never did he feel brave enough to act on that _particular_ feeling. Then again, he had already asked her to marry him; few things could be scarier than that. A decade of staring down killers and terrorists and monsters, and nothing had terrified him more than sitting in that hospital bed and waiting for her to answer him.

Her tongue slipping into his mouth drew him back to the present with staggering effectiveness, and he dug his hands into small of her back as her fingers found the buttons of his pajama shirt. Undoing the first few, she touched the skin of his chest. He was certain she could feel the heat of his body, and her hand was just as warm. Reid brushed her cheek gently as she met his steady gaze. "Do – do you want to?" she panted, breathless.

He swallowed hard. That was a question he hadn't been expecting, but he found he wasn't opposed to the suggestion. "Are you ready to?"

"I… I think so," she whispered, her voice shaking. She looked apprehensive, but not afraid, not like she had that night on her couch, when her fear-wide eyes had been in direct contrast to her actions. Neither knew exactly what to do, but after a lifetime of biology classes, romantic books, and movie scenes, he trusted that instinct would take over and they could work out the details as needed.

Truthfully he'd been relieved when they stopped on the couch that night. It was one area he definitely wasn't an expert on, and he'd always been wary of the unknown. It frightened him. Even if he'd been prepared, it was impossible for him to feel comfortable with anything that clearly made her uncomfortable. Reid wanted to make her feel safe, and he needed to be able to trust that she _wanted_ to take that step with him, because of him, not because of some other reason. Old insecurities still made it hard to believe that anyone could feel that way about him; the way she looked at him assured him that she absolutely did.

With a racing heartbeat and sweating palms, he reached for the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head, never once looking away from her eyes. For a long moment they sat there, paralyzed by a sense of uncertainty and apprehension. He was struck by the feeling that they toeing the edge of a line that, once crossed, would mark an irreversible shift. Before either could move again, there was a knock at the door. With a yelp, she practically leapt off of him, rolling over the edge of the bed and onto the floor with an ungraceful thud as the door clicked and swung open.

His face turned red when Morgan stepped into the room. "Yo, Reid, what's the hold up? If we're going to get back to DC bef-" Midsentence he stopped, taking in the sight of Reid, his hair mussed, his shirt partially undone, the sheets on the bed a mess. Eyebrows raised, he walked around to the edge of the first bed. Spencer had been sleeping in the second bed, and there in the gap between the two was Bianca, mortified. Her back was pressed against the wall, her sweater clutched to her chest, and she looked as though she were trying desperately to pretend she didn't exist. Morgan looked at her and then back at Reid, and when understanding crossed his face, the couple wanted to sink through the floor just to escape.

" _Oh_. My bad. I didn't realize I was interrupting something." Snatching his key card from the dresser, he hightailed it out of the hotel room, reminding the two to get downstairs soon.

Bianca stood from her spot on the floor, smoothing down her hair and hastily throwing on her sweater. "I think I should go then," she said. They were both flustered now by how close they had come to taking that plunge, and by having been caught in the act.

"Yeah," he agreed, his voice high. "I uh, I should get dressed."

As he appeared in the lobby, Morgan winked at him, and he found himself unable to look at anything other than the ground. It was a good thing the case was closed, for it was terribly distracting that morning, trying to focus on something other than the way his stomach still flipped and how good it felt to be so overwhelmed by her – her body, her lips, her tongue. They had kissed so many times, and yet there had never been such certainty in their movements before, such directness.

Gravity, he thought absent-mindedly. It was like gravity, like feathers falling through the air slowly, hesitant to touch the ground before finally giving in to the undeniable force pulling them down. Like objects with no air resistance or upward friction, the longer the descent the faster they began to fall, accelerating over time. Gravity, a universal constant as Newton had defined it, with a Relative Standard Uncertainty of 4.7 x 10 to the negative fifth power. All that ambivalence between them was gone now, everything was sharply defined and it didn't take a physicist to know he was falling _hard_. Was that experiment even right, he wondered? Of course it was, he'd tested it himself as a child, but even though he knew that an apple and a cannonball dropped from the same height would fall at the same speed, he felt like he would strike the ground so much faster, as though gravity's force had somehow increased upon him and him alone. There was no logic to his theory, but when Bianca was involved, few things made sense.

Love threw logic out the window.

They filed into cars, and he thought that as long as he sat in the front and she sat in the back, they would be fine - but just hearing her talk stirred those feelings up again, reminding him of the raspy sound of her voice when she asked, _"do you want to?"_

Having reached the small airport, the group stood around waiting for the pilot of the jet to arrive. Counting birds, calculating the air temperature in Celsius, Fahrenheit, and Kelvin, repeating _Hamlet_ backwards; Reid tried to focus on anything _but_ the heat creeping into his cheeks. Having run out of things to occupy himself with, he allowed himself to finally look at her. Her face was similarly tinged with pink, and it struck him then how silly all of their embarrassment was. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Sorry?" she asked. "What for?"

"This morning. I wasn't expecting Morgan to walk in like that." He was only glad it hadn't happened a few minutes later.

Bianca smiled at him. "Spencer, you don't have to apologize. I think we were both pretty flustered after that. I've spent all morning trying not to think about it, to be honest."

"Me too," he admitted.

"Maybe I'm not as ready as I thought I was."

"I'm nervous too." He put his hand over hers, the ring on her finger cold against his skin. "But that's okay. We have more than enough time to figure it out." There was no rush he felt to get it over with. After all, he'd gone three decades without having sex, a little while longer wasn't going to kill him. It merely meant more time with her spent reading, talking, holding hands, sleeping side by side. He was just fine with that.

With that conversation finally out of the way, they fell back into their usual habits, finally granting themselves permission to acknowledge each other. Her fingers entwined with his and she rested her head on his shoulder until the plane arrived. Naturally finding their way back to each other, like clockwork. Like gravity.

They were sitting together on the couch in the jet, both still sufficiently tired; neither had slept well the previous night. For the majority of the trip home they managed to stay awake. Bianca was tapping her feet in an effort to stay alert, listening to the banter of the other agents and concentrating on the feeling of Spencer's hand on hers, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. The movement was so calming, so repetitive, and the cabin lights were so dim, and it didn't take long before she was fast asleep, leaning against him. Careful not to wake her, he shifted so that he lying down and her head was on his chest.

"Picking up where you left off or something?" Morgan winked at him.

"Shut up," he hissed, afraid to raise his voice any louder. Reid tried to ignore the bemused looks from his fellow agents, which wasn't hard to do when so much of his attention was focused on her. Wrapping his arms securely around Bianca, he too drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Here's another long chapter for you!**

 **Thank you to Autxmnal Rain, Nuray14, elaine06, alove1d, animelover56348, and grim assassin sherlock101 for following/favoriting this story!  
A huge thank you to ahowell1993** (I think they would want all the people in their lives to be present for a wedding, and while I don't think they would be so quick as to elope - after all they did take almost five years to reach this point haha - I don't think they'd wait say, another year to be married), **tannerose5** (thank you!), **Sue1313** (oh thanks! And yes, I believe in that moment he just realized he couldn't wait. They both need each other so much. Ugh, and Blake was one of my favorites as well. Naturally I wanted to elaborate on her heartbreaking goodbye haha), **LadyAmazon** (the good sort of tears I hope haha!), **FreakyFreckledGirl11** (thanks so very much! I feel so honored!), the first **Guest** (ILYSM TOO. And thanks! I'm so happy you love it!), the other **Guest** (thank you! Here's more story for you!), **Love-Fiction-2016** (thanks!), **dianakotori** (I will only say this - you're the best! thank you), **ripon** (thank you! You've been here since the beginning of that journey, and I'm so grateful) **.  
I appreciate each and every one of you - and all you silent readers out there - so incredibly much! It means the world to me that you all take the time to favorite/follow/leave feedback for this story. Honestly, we writers live for feedback, and I'm so thankful for all you wonderful readers who make it so much fun to post this story. **

**Until the next chapter!**


	31. 31) In Waiting

"Why does a wedding have to be so complicated?" Bianca asked.

"It doesn't have to be. We could just go to the courthouse and get a license, but I doubt our friends would allow that. When JJ tried to do that with Will, Rossi took it upon himself to throw them a wedding in his yard."

The two had set a date only a few months away, not wanting to risk Spencer getting called out on another case, and having to keep postponing the date. There were to be married on the first of October, his favorite month. The short timespan made planning difficult, as most venues wanted a notice well in advance. They decided it was best to have the ceremony indoors, not knowing if the weather would cooperate and not wanting anything unpredictable to happen outside to make his mother uncomfortable. Despite his feelings about religion, he agreed to be married in a church, and a small chapel was secured. The date was set for the first of October.

They both wanted a small wedding, something simple and intimate. That would include his team of course - Rossi, Hotch, Morgan, Callahan, JJ, Garcia, and even Prentiss – and their families, Jack, Meg and Chris, Will, and Henry, Sam, and Savannah. She invited her friends from New York, Maggie, Nathaniel, and Sarah-Jane, along with Dr. Baker. He invited his mother and John, his NA sponsor, as well as Alex Blake and her husband, James. She invited Ivy, and her girlfriend Jess, as well as Eva and Lorenzo. Spencer was surprised to see his list outnumbered hers seventeen to eight. She decided to add four of her classmates from Georgetown, and left it at twelve. Many of her close international friends would be unable to make a long trip, and while she was friends with several coworkers, there were few she was close enough to invite. They wanted to include only the people most important in their lives.

It was decided, together, to try and do the right thing. Begrudgingly and reluctantly, he mailed an invitation to his father, and she did the same for her family. Both were relieved when William didn't respond, and her family said they were too busy to come. They weren't too busy, Bianca knew, but after that one visit to DC they rarely spoke to her. She assured him it didn't bother her, though he knew it did.

The only things left to figure out were a suit (Morgan helped him with that), a dress (Ivy and Garcia insisted on coming along), and a cake. Spencer was all too happy to assist in that department. Having decided against a rehearsal dinner, Rossi took it upon himself to put together a small "family" gathering before the wedding.

Standing out on Rossi's patio was eerily reminiscent of the night Spencer had brought her along to give her a proper introduction to the team. So much changed in the time since. When she looked around, she no longer felt like an outsider. There were jokes she could share with Garcia or Morgan, easy conversations with JJ. Even Hotch seemed less intimidating. Spencer's hand found hers, and she smiled up at him. That was one constant; she still felt most at home by his side.

Since the hotel incident, they'd decided to take things at their own pace, but she was inexplicably pulled towards him; in the same manner he always gravitated towards her. Finding ways to touch, to hold onto each other. This was the same Spencer who avoided handshakes whenever possible, and allowed hugs only from those he knew best. It meant a great deal, to know that the man who steered away from unnecessary contact let her into his space. Deliberately touched her, wanting to be close to her.

Under the glow of the backyard lights, they mulled about, the air bright with the sound of conversations between friends, laughter, joy that seemed to shine. In place of Alex was the team's newest addition – Kate Callahan; along with her husband Chris, and Meg, their niece. Already she looked to be a natural part of the family, currently regaling Morgan and Savannah with a story that had all of them on the verge of tears they were laughing so hard.

It felt like warmth, like home, like belonging. To stand with people she cared about, people who cared about her. All of them had been so busy lately, and she was grateful for the opportunity to see the team, to catch up with Penelope over drinks and under stars.

"Have you figured out the honeymoon?" Garcia was asking. Over the course of the evening they had been asked countless times about various aspects of the wedding.

Bianca glanced over her shoulder at Spencer, smiling at her. "Amsterdam," she answered. It had been a debate, going over cities and places they wanted to visit. He hated the beach, she hated the cold, and they had only five days.

"It only seemed fair," added Spencer, "since I was kind of the reason she didn't get to go last time."

"Well, I for one blame that network of dirty cops in Texas," Penelope laughed. "But I'm just so happy for both of you! My favorite genius is marrying my favorite petite poet, and everybody gets a happily-ever-after."

When the night air grew colder, they slowly parted ways, their goodbyes laced with thank-yous and see-you-soons. She followed Spencer back to his car, Hotch walking alongside them and holding the hand of a rather sleepy Jack.

As they started to climb into their respective vehicles, the ghost of a smile played on Hotch's lips. "It isn't easy, making a relationship work in this profession. But you two have endured a great deal together already. I really do hope you'll be happy." Knowing what had happened to his own marriage as a result of his work only added that much more meaning to his words.

When they reached her apartment building, he walked her to the door, his fingers interlaced with hers. It seemed she wasn't the only one reluctant to let go. Holding his hand was such a natural gesture, sometimes she did it without even thinking. The very first time had been in New York, and he'd placed his hand over hers in a moment of sympathy. It was the beginning of an endless list of little moments spent searching for the simplest form of contact. That simple act was still capable of speaking volumes.

Under the glow of the streetlights, she took both of his hands and held them up, her palms pressed to his, lined up so that the tip of each of her fingers touched each of Spencer's. It was enough to just let their breathing fill the space of the quiet around them, and she stood watching the reflections of lamps and stars flicker in his hazel eyes. He was beautiful. From the sharp angles of his cheekbones to his brilliant smile to the astonishing mind he possessed. Everything in him spoke to something in her, pulled from her heart a reaction she couldn't control.

Bianca pressed her lips to the knuckles of his left hand, stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. It was a message that needed no words, two people who most loved language communicating in total silence. When she pulled away, he reached out to brush his hand through her hair, before leaning in to kiss her fully. A soothing sort of kiss. Gentle, soft; in no rush to convey anything other that the utmost adoration.

It almost felt painful to part from him, to walk in opposite directions alone after such a happy night surrounded by people. There were plenty of anxieties and fears she held in regards to the wedding. But she had no doubts about Spencer.

Their daily goodbyes would soon come to an end, and when he walked her home, it would be to one they shared. Together.

* * *

Autumn leaves were drifting down, dancing like bits of fire on the wind. The park was quiet, not as popular in late September as it was in the summer. They were both reading, Bianca resting with her head in his lap, balancing a book with one hand, her other holding into his. Two books occupied the space on the bench just to his right, but he was presently occupied with the copy of _The Princess Bride_ that she'd given him a few months ago.

 _"Again Holiness, I interrupt in the name of love. Please hurry along as best you can to the end."  
"Mawidge is a dweam wiffin a dweam…" _Interruptions in order to prevent objections. That was one thing he was relieved he didn't have to worry about; a guest objecting to their marriage. Or at least, there wasn't anyone that he knew of.

"What would your family think of me?" he asked suddenly.

Bianca lifted her head, staring at him. "What do you mean? You've met them before."

"Once," he amended. "But if they came to the wedding, if they met me as your fiancé and not your boyfriend, what would they think?"

The sigh she heaved carried years of disappointment and sorrow. "Spencer, that's not something you want to know. Trust me."

Though he'd expected her to deflect, he was still a little dejected. "You don't think they'd approve." Not a question, but an observation. Bianca reluctantly closed her book, sitting up straight and bracing herself, though she was the one delivering the punches and not the one preparing to receive the blow.

"They don't even approve of _me_ ," she said. "You really want to know?" He nodded, and she had to look away before she began. "If they knew everything about you, they'd never think you were good enough. They would see you only as an addict and a liability. My father would call you weak and insolent, and then imply that you weren't man enough. My mother would say you were a know-it-all, and that your hair is too messy. She probably would tell me I could've done better – and her opinion of you would be the nicest. As for Rick, he could probably care less about you, but be angry that he had to sit through a wedding or see either of us. Then again, he might be the one to say _you_ could've done better. They wouldn't be pleased about _us_ , any of them."

The tirade was honest, but the knowing still stung. No, they wouldn't like him. They never really had. What was worse though, was knowing that they held such a low opinion of their own daughter. It was clear that as distant as Bianca was from them, that wound had never properly healed. "But I don't care what they think," she said. "I want to be with you, and if you want to be with me, that's all that matters. In a few days, we'll really be family."

Reid gathered her into his arms, holding her tight. "We always have been. You and I are already a family."

He could feel her relax in his embrace, her shoulders letting go of tension they hadn't realized they'd been carrying. "I know," she murmured, the words slightly muffled by his cardigan. "But in two weeks, everyone else will know, too."

* * *

Bianca ascended the metro stairs, Tanvi and Aiden walking alongside her. "I've finished with a final compilation of statements from the girls who escaped after the kidnappings," she said. "That should pretty much wrap up our research for the clinical, right?"

"As long as Professor Hastings doesn't ask for any follow-up work, yes," answered Aiden. He dodged a group of kids running past in the opposite direction. "Though he's notorious for doing so."

Tanvi elbowed him. "Lighten up, Jostpile. It's our final year. In a few months, we'll be out of here with degrees and actual jobs."

"If we pass the bar," he corrected. "Which reminds me, anyone up for drinks tonight? Wagner thought it would be a good way to kick off the final year. Apparently he's buying."

"Absolutely," Tanvi said. "After all the review these files demanded, I am more than happy to have a few drinks paid for by someone else. Brown, are you in?"

"I can't, I'm sorry. I've already got plans." Plans to look over her papers one last time, curl up with a good book, and relax before classes and wedding details overwhelmed her. Bidding her classmates farewell, she continued on home alone. Long walks gave her the chance to work through her thoughts, and to simply take in the city. With the work from the Chibok case winding down, there would be much more time for time spent with friends, and soon enough it would be time to start looking for a job. The future could feel daunting, with so many decisions to make and things to do.

At the moment though, she was grateful for the present. DC in the evening was lovely, the sun setting over the buildings, and the lights just beginning to come on. Office buildings lit up with hallway lights, memorials and monuments in all their glory, streetlamps guiding the inhabitants of the city home, keeping watch over her all the way to the Cairo. Gazing up at the looming structure that would be her home for only a little while longer, she couldn't help but feel nostalgic, remembering the first time she'd come here, moving in while Spencer was away.

It was then that she noticed the lights on her own apartment windows. For a moment she panicked, wondering if she'd left them on all day – but no, she distinctly remembered closing the curtains that morning, and they were thrown wide open now. Was there someone inside? Typically, she would've called Spencer, but he was on a case and –

It dawned on her then, why there was a light on, and she hurried inside, going straight for the elevator. Any other day she would take the stairs, but she just wanted to get to her floor as fast as possible. Once there, she tried her door, finding it unlocked. Her heart was pounding, not out of fear, but of anticipation. Bianca tentatively pushed the door open, peering around the corner.

And there he was.

"Spencer!" At the sound of his name he turned from his spot near the bay window, and she ran to him, leaping into his outstretched arms. He lifted her up off the ground, spinning her in a circle, both of them laughing. "I didn't think you would be home so soon!" It felt so good just to touch him again. To hold and be held.

"Neither did I," he admitted. "But we managed to find the unsub sooner than expected. It probably saved the life of his last victim, too. Anyways, I thought since it went well and I had some free time, I would come surprise you."

Just as she had a copy of his key, he had one to her place; though he hadn't used it in quite some time. "Consider me surprised. Want some coffee? Tea?"

"Tea would be lovely, thanks." Giving him a smile and a quick kiss, she hurried into the kitchen to put on a kettle as he took he seat on the couch. Water boiled slowly on the old stove, and she returned to living room with the intention of asking him more about the case until it was ready.

Spencer's face was contorted in a grimace, kneading the right side of his neck. Nearly five months had passed since the shooting, though the surgeons had told him it would take some time before he was completely pain free. Between the casework and the wedding planning he had enough to focus on without the added stress of an old injury.

"Is it bothering you again?" Bianca asked, perching on the arm of the couch next to him.

"It's not that bad." Which was Reid-speak for _it's bothering me, but I don't want to worry you_. It would be so much easier if he could take something for the pain, but that wasn't an option for him. Instead he shouldered through it, whether at work or at home. More often than not being home meant spending the day at her apartment, as she wanted to spend as much time there as possible before permanently moving out.

She raked her hands through his hair, which was becoming more unruly with each day, a tangle of curls that seemed to defy the laws of gravity. Slowly, she moved down past his ear and to his neck, where she rubbed gentle circles over the faint scar there. A sigh of contentment escaped his mouth as he tilted his head to the side to give her better access.

"Relax," she implored. To alleviate some pain with physical touch helped, but a distraction was just as useful. "Tell me about Kate."

Each syllable he uttered reverberated in her fingertips, still pressed to the side of his throat. "Kate is definitely qualified. She works really hard, and she's ready for just about anything. In many ways she reminds me of Elle Greenaway – direct, brash, and passionate. It's good to have a fresh perspective, it's just… different."

"From Alex, you mean?"

"Very much so. Kate is easy to get along with, but Alex just sort of understood me. It was nice to have someone on the team who was interested in the same sort of things." Morgan, JJ, and Garcia had been some of his closest friends for ages, but Blake formed a close relationship with him the fastest, and losing that had been difficult for him. "The first time I met Alex, she made a linguistics joke about morphemes. Kate made a joke about twerking."

The key difference being that Spencer would get the former, and be confused about the latter. Since they'd begun dating, he had come a long way in understanding pop culture references, though she assured him there was no need to overcompensate on her behalf. It didn't matter if he knew popular songs or if he could name a single reality TV show; though she did appreciate that he took the time to watch her favorite movies and had even listened to the entirety of Fleetwood Mac's discography to be able to catch references to the things she liked.

"Don't get me wrong, I like Kate. But sometimes when I start to ramble, she gives me the look that roughly translates to _shut up please._ I think Alex was the first person I've worked with who never looked at me that way. She didn't think it was weird."

Memory pulled her back through time, to a tiny New York office where he'd completely enchanted her with every word he spoke. Little impromptu lectures weren't everyone's cup of tea, but she just couldn't find his boring.

"What about you?" Spencer asked. "You've seemed a little worried lately."

It was more than just pre-wedding jitters, and she wasn't at all surprised he'd noticed. Bianca asked if he remembered their conversation about the missing women in Columbus which, naturally, he did. "Another girl was reported missing. A nineteen year old from Wheeling, West Virginia. She matches the victimology." Young, pretty, dark hair.

"Since when do you use the term _victimology_?" She dug her fingers just a little deeper into his neck and he groaned.

"Since you taught me about it," she said plainly. "And since girls started vanishing around Columbus. I know I shouldn't worry, but Spencer there's just something about this that feels like a bad omen. I can't explain it, but it doesn't seem right."

From time to time she would bring it up, though it was on her mind much more often. A strange sense of foreboding kept her checking the news, obsessively searching for answers. It just hit too close to home, or more specifically, too close to Rick. Maybe it had nothing to do with her younger brother, but there were too many overlaps for her to ignore.

Spencer wasn't ignoring it either. "You know if I could look into this, I would. But until the BAU is consulted, there's really no way for me to figure anything out." With a defeated sigh, he took her hands into his, pulling her closer to him. "I would give anything to soothe your fears."

"You do," she said. Emotions weren't quite so straightforward, there was a great deal of overlap in the mind and in the heart. While certainties would have been the easiest way to quell her worries, other ways remained of temporarily easing them. She took comfort in small pleasures, in good books, time to write, and long runs. Starry skies, conversations with friends, and warm blankets were capable of lifting her spirits. Just as time with him could make her forget about news for a little while. "When I'm with you, I'm not so scared. You make things better. You always do."

It was like magic, the way he made her feel so safe. Tucked away in a her apartment, wrapped up together as the afternoon sun filtered through the bay window, the world felt gentle, at peace. Any troubles and all evils ceased to exist when he walked through that door. While both their jobs revolved around putting the worst of wrongs right again, and though she would never speak it out loud, sometimes she wished they never had to leave that space. Wished that things could stay serene and blissful as they were then.

* * *

Reid tapped his foot impatiently, staring out the window. Their lunch break was short, and there was never enough time to sort out all that ran through his mind.

"Reid," Morgan said, cutting into his thoughts. "What's up with you? You haven't been able to sit still all day."

There were many answers. Paperwork, stress, exhaustion. "It's a week away," he found himself saying, surprised by his own candor.

Morgan raised an eyebrow, taking a seat across from him at the table. "Are you talking about the wedding?" Reid gave a nod of confirmation. "You're not getting cold feet are you?"

"No!" he answered quickly. Absolutely everything about marrying Bianca felt right. Except for the actual _wedding_. "It's just… more than I thought it would be. What if it doesn't go right? What if I say the wrong thing? What if I'm just awkward around everybody?"

They were things he felt uncomfortable speaking aloud, let alone to Morgan – always smooth, charming. But Derek didn't tease him. "Listen, kid. You're going to be fine. It's your day. As long as you're happy, you can't go wrong. All of your friends and family will be there and-"

"They won't," he cut in.

"What do you mean?"

Reid glanced around the corner, making sure they were alone for the time being. It was one thing to reveal his own private matters, another to share someone else's. "Her family isn't coming." It was something he hadn't told anyone yet. "They don't want to be there."

Morgan was visibly stunned. "Is she okay with that?"

"She says she is, but I don't know." There was still a sadness in her eyes whenever the topic came up, something that mirrored disappointment. A part of him wondered if this was regret over her family's absence, or over the fact that she didn't have the sort of family who would want to be present to begin with. Reid groped for the right words to explain it. "I mean, she's never been close with them, but she still wants to be close to somebody. It's supposed to be a good day for her. And I just… I love her more than anything. All I want is for her to be happy, but I don't know how to fix this."

Incapable of repairing the scars made when she was still young, or undoing the damage already done. How on earth could he make up for three people who had never really been there in the first place?

"There are some things you just can't fix, even with that big brain of yours. But you'll think of something. You always do." Morgan paused, then raised his eyebrows. "Is it just the wedding that's bothering you? Or what happens after the wedding?"

It was his friend's attempt at lightening the mood, joking in that casual way he had, but it only made Reid more flustered. "I – I, um, haven't really thought about it that much." Not true. He'd thought about it plenty. Worried about it, fretted, panicked.

"You know there are books on that, right?" Morgan teased.

Reid looked away. "Yeah. I've read a few," he muttered, half hoping his colleague wouldn't hear.

"Even _Bare Reflections_?"

"What's that?"

Morgan shook his head, laughing. "Never mind. Better you don't know. Look, Reid. It's like baseball. Don't overthink it. If you care about her, and you two communicate, you're going to be fine. I've seen the way you two look at each other. You're marrying the person you love most – and the person who loves you most. That's what matters."

"Thanks," he said, offering Morgan a nervous smile.

"Anytime Pretty Boy, anytime." He tossed the remains of his lunch into the garbage and made his way back to his office, leaving Reid alone with his thoughts.

With one week left to go, preparations for the wedding had kicked into high gear. Guests were due to start arriving, and he'd tagged along with Bianca to the airport to pick up Eva and Lorenzo. Eva had startled him with her outspoken nature, greeting him with, "So you're the man tha' broke her heart?" Bianca and Lorenzo both reprimanded her, but she seemed unfazed by it. They'd all gone out to lunch together, during which he could never entirely tell whether the red-haired woman liked him or not. That evening though, as they sat in Bianca's apartment catching up, she took him aside.

"Here's the thing," she'd said. "I don't want to upset you. I'm not tryin' to be rude. I jus' wanted to mess wit you a bit. You didn't see her in her the Netherlands. I did. She was utterly heartbroken about you. Kept your picture on her phone, never agreed to go on a date wit anyone. She loves you a lot. Thinks the world o' you. Trus' me, I've read her book." At that he had looked down, trying to hide his embarrassment. "I jus' need to know that you're as good a guy as she says. Tha' you won't hurt her like tha' again."

"What happened then was… it was complicated. But the last thing I would ever want to do is hurt her. I swear to you, I mean that."

Seemingly satisfied, Eva had smiled. "I believe you. And Spencer? It really is nice to finally meet you."

It was then that Bianca had come to his side, grinning. "There you are, my love," she said, looping her arm around his. The way she looked at him then made it clear that whatever happened in the past, she harbored only love for him. Yes, he had thought, that's who he was. _Her_ love. More than just a little proud of the title, he couldn't help but smile at her. "Eva, you're not teasing him are you?"

"Me? Never," Aoibhegréine had laughed. "I wouldn't dream o' teasing the man you'll be marrying in about a week."

One week.

Reid sighed, staring out the office window. Quantico sprawling outside, the wide line of trees bordering the FBI Academy and the Marine Corps Base alike. One week was seven days was one hundred and sixty-eight hours was ten thousand and eighty minutes. It seemed such a long time to wait, when all he wanted was to be near her. Impatiently waiting for the day when their space would be a shared one. He wanted to fall asleep listening to the sound of her breathing, cuddle up on the couch with a movie only to be distracted by her hand clinging to his, listen to her read poems to him in the park. Her words were a part of him, she had written her way into his heart.

One more week and the waiting would be over.

* * *

Bianca was curled up in her bay window, staring out at the city. It was late out, the glow of the lights blurred by the rainfall. In three more nights, she would no longer be able to call this view her own. The apartment itself was beginning to feel less and less like hers. Things were packed into boxes, and every weekend she and Spencer would migrate a few more from the Cairo to his building. At this point, her place was practically bare, only the essentials left behind. Four boxes, blankets, a few changes of clothing, two books, her computer, and a notebook. Beginnings and endings were remarkably similar. Her first week in DC had looked like this, a pile of things in a brand new apartment. In a few days she would be leaving this building behind, taking only the memories she'd made there.

That first serious conversation with Spencer, countless cups of coffee and of tea, hellos and goodbyes, movie nights, lazy afternoons, long runs, cozy evenings in front of the fireplace. She had a habit of getting attached too easily, even to a location. There was much she felt grateful to the Cairo for, and it felt in many ways like parting ways with an old friend. And yet, Spencer's apartment already felt like home to her as well. Anywhere he was, felt like home. Absent-mindedly she twisted the ring on her left hand.

Spencer.

In three days, they would be married. Like the path that had brought her from Ohio to Washington DC, it was a long journey that had led the two of them to this point. Looking back on it all, it was hard not to believe in miracles, when the universe had orchestrated something so complex and so beautiful. She couldn't help but wonder at the odds that had brought them together. To be working jobs that would intersect in a city of 8,550,405 people was no small feat. For the both of them to be in the same room, to bump into each other in the same bookstore, for her book to find its way to him. It was a series of one happy accident after another. Train rides and plane rides and museums and libraries. A kiss on the sidewalk, a goodbye in a hallway, a hello in a lobby, a confession in a park. The sharing of secrets and of meals and of a bed.

To say she wanted to be with him was an understatement. She _needed_ him. To be close to him was an absolute necessity, non-negotiable. When she was with him, she felt more herself. He was always teaching her something, always challenging her to be braver, stronger, more confident. Being around him gave her courage, gave her hope. He made her want to be better than she was, he made her want to love as best as she could.

Loving him came easy. There were so many things she adored about him, enough to fill volumes of books with. He was poetry in motion, a breathing ballad. She loved his generosity, the way he was always giving to those around him. Offering up a hand, or a shoulder to cry on, or an ear to listen. Giving his life to save others, and giving his time to make sure the people he cared about weren't hurting. She loved his eyes, the deep hazel color they held and the way they noticed everything, how he looked her as though he'd never seen anything quite like her. And she'd never seen anyone quite like him; she wanted to memorize each expression he made as those eyes held confusion, excitement, delight, sadness, relief. He was all of the stars; she looked into his eyes and found the universe.

She loved his mind and all the things it was capable of remembering. In that head was a lifetime of knowledge and events, list after list of people and places and things. He was the most intelligent person she knew, making connections nobody else could see, creating things nobody else could fathom. Brilliant didn't even begin to describe it, but he never used his intelligence to make others feel inferior, was never arrogant or a know-it-all. He was just genuinely passionate, curious, and enthusiastic about learning and about teaching.

She loved his hands, warm and soft and surprisingly strong. Never had she thought of hands as being beautiful, but he had the most beautiful hands, long fingers that fit perfectly in hers, that touched her with such care. He was also so gentle with her, capable of telling her in words and in gestures how much he cared for her. She loved the way he dressed, in button down shirts and sweaters, in cardigans and ties, in polished dress shoes and beat up sneakers. She loved the way he walked with his hands in his pockets, or an arm around her, always moving with a sort of bounce in his step, walking with some sort of purpose, knowing exactly where he was going.

She loved his hair, how it managed to look good at every length and style. Truthfully she liked it long best, the way it had been when she first met him, but each time he cut it seemed to mark a different chapter in their lives and she could keep the years straight in photographs just by looking at his haircut. She loved his lips, always forming a crooked sort of grin, or a contagious laugh, or a kiss. _Especially_ when he was kissing her.

She loved the way he talked, the words coming too fast because he couldn't contain his excitement. Rambling lectures were his specialty, but she was more than happy to listen to every last one, taking in all that he had to teach her. And when he talked to her in private, his voice dropped to a low whisper that made her think they were the only two people left in the world.

She loved the way her loved her. There was nothing he wouldn't do for her. Granted his line of work made things difficult, but they always managed to work around that. He always called to tell her he loved her, and when he got home from a case the first thing he did was plan to meet up with her. If he was in town when a storm came, he would take the metro and walk in the pouring rain just to wait it out with her. When he put his arms around her, it felt like coming home. He loved her the way the moon loved a planet, the way a verse loved a chorus, and the way a ship loved the sea. It was perhaps his greatest magic trick, quelling her fears and pushing back her insecurities, brightening her day with the wave of a hand, and promising to never let go.

And she loved the way _she_ loved _him_. Deeper than she'd ever imagined could be possible, so completely it seemed she'd known him all her life. To love him was to see the world in color, to hear music she'd previously been deaf to. She loved him the way the stars loved the night, the way the tide loved the shore, and the way flowers loved the spring. Limitless, constant, steady. Her love for him couldn't be quantified or measured, but she knew without a doubt that doing so made her want to be better. It filled her heart to the brim, washed away her worries of the future, and gave her something worth fighting for. Loving him taught her how to give, and to forgive, without asking anything in return. No, she didn't ask, but somehow he always returned that affection tenfold.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Given his work schedule and her classes, I think that they wouldn't want to wait a very long time to get married. And neither is the sort to want a large, lavish wedding.**

 **Thanks so much to Stefanielove, LadyofTheNightwing, OceanButterfly, Calliope56, CharChlo, Lara-Cat, Jackkiixx, and kim67255 for following/favoriting this story!**

 **To TwilightNewMoonEclipseMidnight** (thank you!), **dianakotori** (oh wow thanks! I'm so glad it came off as realistic, I wanted it to seem as authentic as possible. And happy to teach, as always haha!), **DeliciousAudrey** (thank YOU! Haha, I apologize for how slow the slow burn has been. But it makes it all the more worthwhile when it finally happens), **Sue1313** (thanks! Moms do tend to be that way haha. And naturally it had to be Morgan who walked in), **jasmine-schuh** (well in that case, welcome! and thank you so much!) **Dark-Enough-Conspiracy-Theory** (aww thank you!), **Love-Fiction-2016** (thanks!), **ripon** (thank you so much!), **and** **Guest** (ahh your wish is my command! Sorry to keep you waiting!), **thank you all so incredibly much for taking the time to leave reviews! Your feedback means the world to me! I'm always so grateful to hear from you.**

 **You all are cordially invited to the next chapter for a black tie affair. ;)  
**


	32. 32) An Exchanging of Vows

October first arrived, and they both woke with butterflies in their stomach. They took separate Metro lines to the hotel where their out-of-town friends were staying. He went to one room, she to another, each preparing for the evening ahead. When bow ties had been adjusted and dresses zipped, they converged at Saint Mark's Church. With such a small group of guests, they had nixed the idea of bridesmaids and groomsmen, but Spencer was grateful to have a best man – Morgan – standing next to him. If he was alone on the altar, he feared he might panic and bolt.

He stared at out the small gathering assembled on the pews. The BAU was close together, members present and past there, along with their families. Bianca's friends were scattered in groups, and Dr. Baker was sitting at the very front. He scanned the rows, realizing he didn't see his mother. Panic automatically took over.

Unbeknownst to him, Eva had beckoned her away to a back room at Bianca's request. "My family isn't here," she explained to Diana. "So I don't have anyone to walk me down the aisle. I know it's not exactly traditional, but it would mean a lot to me… if you would."

The processional began at the sound of a piano, and Spencer tried to breath evenly as he watched Eva make her way towards them, coming to stand opposite him and Morgan. And then she was there. He noticed his mother first, unexpectedly, and then he saw her. Holding Diana's arm, dressed in white, and stealing the air from his lungs.

It felt surreal. She was beautiful, and she was walking towards him, and this was really going to happen. Diana gave them both a smile, and took a seat as Bianca met him on the altar and he learned that yes, she _was_ the kind of person to cry at a wedding.

There was an exchange of vows, the ones they had written before the binding ones. He went first, pulling the papers from his suit jacket pocket. Out into the crowd he glanced, taking a last long look at his friends and family. All of them smiling, Rossi giving him a thumbs up, and Blake nodding encouragingly. With a deep breath, he looked down at the words he'd written weeks ago.

"I don't believe," began Spencer, "that intelligence can be accurately quantified. There are too many variables and factors to add to the equation to provide for a standard solution. Perhaps it is best measured by what one is capable of doing, whether those skills lie in reading or mathematics or kinesthetic motion. See, there's the theory of multiple intelligences, which postulates that our brains possess different skill sets and types of intelligence: logical, inter and intra personal, emotional, bodily, and verbal, to name a few. And while I study behavior for a living, I tend to do far better in areas of logic than in emotional or social situations."

He kept his eyes on the paper clutched in his hand Too nervous to recite it from memory, he held on to it with the hope that if he didn't look up, he wouldn't trip over the words. That his voice would sound calm when masked by an air of certainty. If he looked up at her too long, he would lose his place entirely, and he wanted to do this right.

"Emotional intelligence is defined as the ability to understand and regulate emotions, the capacity to empathize, and to recognize how emotions evolve over time. Love is one of the most complex emotions we feel, so powerful that the Greeks had four different words for it, and centuries of art has been inspired by it. Wars have been fought for it, and some people even write poems about it." He paused, looking at her with a smile. "Despite all this, we still can't explain it. There are theories, about lovemaps and neurotransmitters and the triangular theory of intimacy, commitment, and passion; but there's nothing concrete. Which is hard for someone like me to accept. I want to be able to explain the world around me, but there's no logic to what I feel for you.

"I know it exists though, _because_ I feel it so strongly. Like all emotions, that love has evolved over time, just as our relationship has. The more I think about it, the more I believe love cannot be accurately quantified either. We can only measure it what we learn from it, and what we're capable of doing because of it. You've taught me more about living and about loving than anybody else, and I say that as someone with three doctorates. You've shown me how to forgive and how to love unconditionally. And I intend to do just that – to love you as much as I can, for as long as I can. You've saved me in more ways than one, always managing to find me. So I'm standing here today, to promise you that I won't leave you. That I'll stay, that I'll be there for you no matter what comes our way. I promise to build a home with you, to make you smile every chance I get. I promise to weather the storms with you, and to love you with my whole heart. There's nobody else who makes me feel so much. There's nobody else I would rather have by my side in this life. And I promise I will never take that love granted."

Her words, they were memorized. Like practicing for a poetry slam, she spent hours standing before a mirror and reciting every last one until she knew it all by heart. Not once did she look away from him, because though she spoke before a small crowd, he was the only one who _needed_ to know.

"I met you in a city of strangers, and from the moment I saw you, you started to teach me. You showed me a map of possibilities and statistics, introduced me to a map of the sky, and drew me a map of your heart, leaving room to let me in. That was the beginning of a sentence of a chapter of our story, one that has spanned pages and countries and years. A tale of coming and going, of losing and finding. We've spent a lifetime with books, but ours will always be my favorite. There aren't words enough to tell you how deeply I adore you, how much I need you in my life. Every language seems to fall short of fitting that feeling, and so I have to hope that actions speak loud enough.

"I cannot name it, I only know that this is love. Nothing has ever felt as right and as certain as this. As right as starlit nights and conversations in parks, the sort of faith rooted in good memories and warm blankets, in cups of coffee and reunions in familiar places. I told you once, that I believed it was enough to make a difference to just that one, and we taped the story of the starfish to our walls, a reminder that our work mattered, no matter the darkness we encountered. But it's not just about a job anymore. I think of you, and I pray that you know how enough you are to me. You must know how much of a difference you have made to me, because no one-"

She drew in a ragged breath, trying to fight back the tears that insisted on falling as she spoke. Instinctively, he grabbed her hands, a physical reassurance. It only added to the emotions overwhelming her, but she continued on as best she could.

"No one else had ever made me feel like enough before. I was used to empty words and broken promises, until you came along and showed me that love wasn't something that left you lonely. You held my fears and my doubts, and you held on to me, turning every day into something sweet. I was always an airplane heart, wandering with nowhere to call my own. Finally, I know that my heart has found a place to call home. And I – I never… I've never had that before, I person who believed I was worth staying for, a person whom I wanted to stay with. But it's you. You are my home, my heart, every star in the sky. And I promise to help you find the light when the world seems dark, to help you find your way when you feel lost. I promise to listen and to talk, and to remind you always that you are loved, and you are needed. More than anything, I promise to keep my word."

He didn't let go of her hands, and she never looked away from his eyes as the minister continued on with the ceremony. While the official proceedings were important, in her mind, it seemed like they had been married for years. Ever since that day, when he had arrived at her apartment to tell her the truth about his mother and his addiction, and they'd both made a silent promise to accept and love the other unconditionally, she felt something tying her to this man who stood before her now, something irrevocable and unexplainable and wonderful.

That promise was permanent now, as they traded rings and proper vows, and finally, a kiss. It was that simple. He was hers, and she was his, and nobody could dispute that claim.

* * *

The reception, like the wedding, was modest and intimate. There was dancing, music, cake, and good friends. Rossi doled out champagne in tall glasses, and toasts were made, the first by Morgan.

"Reid, you are the smartest person I know. You can read a dozen books in a week, and solve advanced equations for fun. And while I may not understand half of the things that you do, this right here, I get. You don't have to be a rocket scientist or a genius to see that this woman cares about you, and that you love her a whole lot. We've been through some tough stuff together, and you've dealt with things that nobody should have to deal with. I've been honored to be your friend, your brother, and your partner all these years. But you've got yourself a new partner now, and she's been by your side through things even I couldn't help you with. So you two take care of each other. Because long as you have each other, I know you'll be okay."

He remained standing as Eva rose from the table across from him. "Bianca, when we first met, I immediately knew tha' you were a kind person. For all your kindness though, I always thought you seemed a little lonely. You told me once about tha' guy you kept a picture o' on your phone, how you still weren't over him. Someday, you said. Well, I guess tha' someday never came, because you married him. You're good and loving people, and it's about time tha' you found your own happiness. When I look at you, you don't look lonely anymore. And tha' has everything to do with him. Spencer, she once told me tha' home isn't a place, but a feeling. Home is where you love, and who you love. Seeing you, I understand it. You're home for her. And she's home for you. So I hope you never lose each again."

"To the happy couple," the pair said in unison. The others echoed their sentiments, glasses clinking. As the champagne was shared, Bianca revealed a bottle of golden tea.

"Star tea," she told him. The same drink he'd once brought out to a clearing in the middle of the night. She poured it now for each of them.

"You can have champagne," he told her. While he'd handled wine well previously, his most recent relapse had him avoiding alcohol again. Bianca shook her head.

"If you're going to be sober, I'm going to be sober. We're in this together."

Drinks and dinner were had, and when they cut they cake, he wiped a strategically placed line of icing across her cheek. She retaliated in kind, smearing frosting on his nose, and they tried not to giggle as the divvied up the rest of the cake. Everyone began to settle at their seats once more, comfortable in their places. It was then that the door opened, and that comfort was quickly disturbed. All eyes turned to see whom the late arrival could possibly be.

Spencer froze at the sight of William Reid stepping inside. The present sensation of breathlessness he felt was a very different sort than the elation overwhelming him only minutes ago. What was he doing there? He _wasn't_ supposed to be there. And yet, somehow, he was. It was an improbable situation, an interruption to their fairy tale moment. Bianca put a hand on his arm, and the tension in the room parted for his father like the Red Sea, as he approached the couple.

"Hi, Spencer."

Three syllables. After all that time, three syllables were all the man offered him, and Reid fought to keep his emotions in check as he replied. "Why are you here?" He was angry still for all those years without contact, and there was that weight of shame leftover from the disastrous attempt to find out what happened to Riley Jenkins.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know if I would be able to make it, but I thought that I should be here." William had never responded to the invitation he'd sent only out of obligation, had never contacted him once since that police station reunion six years ago, and yet he was standing there in front of him as though he belonged here. As if he hadn't intentionally cut himself out of the family tree.

He clenched his teeth. "You were never there for me before. Why now?" The disdain in his voice was unmasked. He had no right, no right to be here on this day. A parent couldn't just pick and choose when to be present and supportive. He hadn't been there when his mother was ill, when he was struggling with all the heavy things life threw his way. Now, on the day of his _wedding_ , he showed up.

Expecting what?

With a steady gaze, his father looked at him. "I know I haven't always been around for you, but what kind of parent," he said plainly, "would miss their kid's wedding?" All around them, people shifted uncomfortably, and Spencer felt Bianca's fingers dig into his forearm with a ragged inhale of breath. She clearly trying not to cry.

This wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't fair to her, and out of sheer desire to end the conversation he tersely said, "Fine, stay. _Thank you_ for coming."

Before another word could pass between them, he led Bianca away, pulling her gently along to a small alcove in the chapel. Away from prying eyes, he held tight to her hand. "Are you alright?" he asked, though he knew she wasn't.

"I'm okay," she said quietly. An obvious lie, though he didn't bother pointing that out. "Are you?" How very like her, to worry about him when she was upset too.

He nodded. "I guess so. I just thought… I didn't think he would come. And now that he's here I don't know what to do." Despite the invitation, he never in a million years would've imagined that his father would actually show up.

"In his own way, he cares about you, I think. You don't have to forgive him, but I think letting him stay was really brave of you."

She looked up at him, and he wanted to capture the image forever. The long white dress gave her the illusion of gliding gracefully along the floor, almost like floating; delicate lace trailed over her shoulders and stopped just short of her elbows. Pinned into her short hair were white flowers, juxtaposed sharply against her dark hair and eyes, gazing at him with such tenderness. Reid placed a hand on her back, where lace gave away to skin, and that simple touch was enough to restore a little more courage to the both of them.

"Well," she said. "Shall we get back in there?" Taking her hand, he let her lead him back to the reception, where their friends stood waiting. Where his father, who knew only Reid and Diana, was awkwardly trying to navigate conversations with strangers.

Not even his father's unannounced appearance could dampen his mood though, when the music began to play, and for only the fifth in his life Spencer Reid danced. After their disastrous attempt at something somewhat choreographed in his apartment, they simply moved together slowly, they way they always did, making it up as they went along.

 _Home for me is where you are  
These four walls are nothing without you  
Home for me is where you are._

The same lyrics he remembered from days of listening to various love songs until the agreed upon one that still felt perfect. Outside the walls of the church, the world could be a crazy – and sometimes cruel – place, but in that moment nothing beyond this dance seemed to matter. If they were here together, and she was in his arms, all of their friends around them, what more did he need?

Bianca rested her head on his chest, swaying slowly in time with him, and if ever there was a moment he wanted to bottle up in a jar and save for a difficult day, it was this. After the first dance, their friends flooded the floor to join them, everyone spinning in circles, trading partners, shuffling feet. Whirlwinds of colors, of dresses and ties, laughter trailing each person as they went.

* * *

After a few songs had played, Rossi cleared his throat, and asked that everyone move aside, for another special dance. Familiar music played softly, the opening notes of a Fleetwood Mac song she must've played a hundred times on quiet afternoons they had spent together in her apartment. Bianca looked around, confused. This hadn't been something they planned. But her groom seemed to know exactly what was going on, as he gave her a small smile, and took his mother by the hand.

"Spencer, what's going on?" she whispered. "I thought we decided not to do this." The pair had talked about if briefly, before concluding that if her family wouldn't be there, there was no point in the standard mother-son/father-daughter dance. But he just shrugged, and led Diana, gently swaying back and forth with her. In that same second, there was a tap on her shoulder.

"Come on then," Rossi said. She started to protest, but he grabbed her arm anyways. "This is the part, he said, "where the bride and groom dance with their families one last time. So let's go."

She followed him in a half-daze. "But…"

"Like I said, this is about _family_. And you're officially part of this one." The tears she'd been trying to hold back since William Reid had shown up finally escaped, but Rossi just smiled at her as they danced, Spencer and Diana not far from them. Abruptly, he stopped, and Hotch walked over to take his place.

"I trust Dave already explained this?" he asked, cutting in. Bianca nodded, still crying. Speaking seemed like too much effort, if she exerted anymore emotional energy she feared her heart might burst. How many happy things could one day hold? "Welcome to the family." It was one thing to have Reid include her as part of the family, another for Rossi to insist she was, but for his _whole_ team to treat her as though she was theirs – that was too much for her bear. All she had ever wanted was to belong.

From the very first moment he brought her into that world, bringing her along to dinner, their "chosen family" was one she wanted to be a part of. Wishes kept piling up with each meeting; happy and sad ones alike. Because that's what families did. They were there for each other in the lows and the highs, whether that involved keeping vigil outside a hospital room after his overdose, or days like today.

As the final verse began to play, Hotch handed her off to Morgan, who took her in his arms with a grin. "My turn, little lady." She laughed through the tears, and when the song finished, Morgan passed her back to Spencer who held her as she clutched his suit jacket and tried to wipe away the last remaining tears from her eyes.

"Did you – did you plan that?" she asked.

"It wasn't _just_ me," he admitted. "My mom wanted to dance with me, so I worked something out. They were happy to oblige."

"Thank you. You reduced me to a puddle, but thank you."

* * *

Nothing about that day was extravagant nor expensive, but it was filled with pure joy, and plenty of laughter between friends and family alike. Any day Reid could spend with the people he cared about most was a good one, but this night outranked them all. He'd never much been one for dancing or parties, but even he was disappointed when the evening came to an end, and they had to part ways with several hugs – another thing he would gladly tolerate for this day.

"I've got a gift for you two," Rossi said, on his way out. "I figured you'd want to enjoy your travels, so I've arrange for you to take an exclusive tour of the Red Lights District." Bianca's jaw dropped, but the older man held his hands up before she could protest. "Calm down, Mother Teresa. I'm only kidding. You'll find your plane tickets have been upgraded to business class. Which should make for a much more comfortable eight hour flight."

Diana hugged her son for a long moment, not needing words to explain how happy she was for him. It was clear that having her there meant everything to Reid. His father, on the other hand, received a stiff, curt thank-you, and while nothing between them seemed to have been forgiven, he knew on some level that it was William's way of trying to make a sort of amends. Maybe someday he would willing to accept them.

Which was harder to fathom? An estranged parent arriving late and unwelcome, or parents who never showed up to begin with?

After another run to the hotel, Bianca met him in the lobby with a suitcase in her hand, the two of them having traded their wedding attire for regular clothes. "Ready?" he asked.

"If I'm with you, I'm ready for anything."

They took a taxi in the night to Dulles airport, and as she leaned against him, he realized that once again she was something new to him. No longer his fiancée, but his _wife_ , and that sounded even better. They sat together on the red-eye to California, and he was grateful for Rossi's gift. For the first time on a commercial flight, he could sit comfortably.

They both tried to get some sleep on the seven and half hour trip. He reclined his seat back, and Bianca kicked off her flats and curled up against the window. The intercom woke him up, as the pilot announced they would soon begin their descent. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up, and she turned to him sleepily. "We'll be there soon," he told her. "We should try to wake up."

"Mm, don't want to," she mumbled. Shifting in her seat, she rested her head back against the window and stretched her legs over the side of the seat divider, letting her feet fall in his lap. She wore shorts and a sweater, and a pair of the thigh-high socks that drove him crazy. Unable to resist, he let his hand wander to her calf, lazily running his fingers up and down the wool fabric towards her knees. After a few minutes of that, she opened her eyes to stare at him.

"Stop that," she said.

He turned red as her sweater. "Sorry." There must've been some sort of line he had crossed, but he thought that by now she was more comfortable with him.

To his relief, she smiled. "You don't need to apologize, my love. You did nothing wrong. But if you keep that up, I'm going to be far too content to fall back asleep, and then we're never going to make it off this plane."

They did though, stumbling out from the jetway with their luggage in the midst of the mid-morning airport traffic. Between the early hours, the time change, and the previous ceremony, the first and second of October had seemed like one long day merged together. The airport was oblivious to this, already a hub of energy and motion. Bright and open, people were coming and going, speaking in languages both familiar and foreign.

Beside him, she already seemed more awake, the familiarity of a well-loved place lighting up her eyes as she deftly navigated her way through. It took two trains and a short walk to arrive at their hotel, but it provided the perfect opportunity to take in the sights of a place he knew only though books and Bianca's stories. Buildings that seemed to rise up from the water, the looming palace-like structure of Amsterdam Centraal Station, red and gold leaves floating down onto the bridges, and the incredible number of bicycles whizzing past. Where DC had parking garages, Amsterdam had bike garages – some of them multiple stories tall, with every spot occupied.

In stories it seemed beautiful, but it was so much better _in person_.

"A reservation for Spencer Reid?" he asked the hotel concierge.

"Let's see… ah, there you are. Mr. and Mrs. Reid." _Mr. and Mrs._ They shared a last name now. His heart skipped a beat again. "It appears your room is ready. I'll just give you the key, and you can go on up."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **At last! I can't believe it's actually been thirty-two chapters. When I started writing it, I had no idea it would be this long. Hopefully the story is worth the length! And THANK YOU to every one of you who has been with me on this journey of a fic.  
**

 **Thank you to readerlover16, BelievinginTrueLoveForever** (awh, your username makes me feel all hopeful!), **bookloverbookworm** (I'm really seeing a theme here with these names haha), **inperfection, and Hanajima-Senpai for following/favoriting this story!**

 **To my dear reviewers: TwilightNewMoonEclipseMidnight** (I hope it lived up to your expectations!), **ahowell1993** (haha, 32 chapters later, we've finally gotten to that point!), **dianakotori** (I think for her, family has become the people who show up. I think that like William Reid, they do care in their own way to an extent, but just not in the way she _needs_ them to care), **tannerose5** (fear not, no messes! Only good things for that day haha. And let's be honest, the BAU is entirely composed of very good-looking people haha!), **DeliciousAudrey** (Thank you so so much! That really means a lot! I'm glad you loved that line), **ripon** (oh gosh, I hope it wasn't in a bad way! I've always tried to avoid imposing my own feelings onto my characters, but I must admit there is much to love about Reid), **Love-Fiction-2016** (aww indeed haha!), **inperfection** (welcome! And thank you so very much! I'm so glad you've enjoyed it, and I apologize for making you cry! And of course, many thanks for not throwing things at me, haha) **thank all of you for your kind words and for taking the time to leave me feedback. It means so much, and I hope I've been able to do this chapter justice. You all are wonderful!**

 **The songs referenced are _Take Me Home_ by Us the Duo, and Fleetwood Mac's _Songbird,_ if you were curious.**


	33. 33) Bliss

_Mrs. Reid_. She was married now. They shared a last name, and that name was proof that were really and truly a family – no one could dispute that. Bianca Reid. That was her name now. She followed Spencer – he was her _husband_ now – into the hotel room, all too happy to finally set down her bags.

It was warmer in the city than on the plane, and she was quick to change out of her clothes, the stale scent of the airplane still clinging to them. By the time she slipped out of the bathroom in a sundress and sweater, he had already swapped shirts and was nursing a cup of coffee on the bed.

"So where to first?" she asked. The hotel was right on the Amstel River, at the intersection of several major canals. "There are a bunch of old churches nearby, and it wouldn't take long to get to some of the museums either. The Rijksmuseum is about ten minutes from here."

"Four years ago, we were in the National Art Gallery, and you promised that someday we would go to the Van Gogh Museum together. I'd like to finally make good on that promise." He grinned at her, starting towards the door of their room, ready to head back out into the world.

"Wait," she said. "There's something I wanted to give you first." It took a moment of digging around in her suitcase, but she finally withdrew a small notebook, with a hard purple cover. He took it from her tentatively, and thumbed through the first few pages. All of them covered in her handwriting.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Poems," she answered. "I've been writing them since that day in the park last summer. I've never shown them to anyone else, and I'll never publish them. They're for you and only you." Verses that had been written in Verona, in a hospital, in his living room while he tried to sleep through his withdrawal. Love letters in the most poetic format, for only him to read. "Once you read something, you never really forget it, and well, I never want you to forget how much you mean to me."

Tears swam in his eyes for a moment, and he hastily swiped them away with the back of his hand. "Thank you," he said. Then, looking as though he'd just remembered something, he grabbed his satchel. "I have something for you, too."

Spencer presented her with a small, wrapped package. She tore the paper off with care, not wanting to damage whatever it protected. When the wrapping fell away, she hesitated, glancing up at him uncertainly before opening the cover of the book. Her breath caught in her throat. "Spencer," she murmured. "But this is…" There was no way he meant it, did he? To give her something that was so crucial to him.

"It is," he said. "And I want you to have it."

"I don't understand." Bianca looked back down at the novel in her hands, _The Narrative of John Smith_. Not just the same book, but his exact copy. With Maeve's handwriting inside.

"When I lost her, my heart was broken. That book was the only thing that remained. Somehow though, you managed to pick up the pieces for me. Every day I'm grateful for that. And I want you to know that you have my whole heart. Every part of me is yours, forever. There is nobody else who means more to me."

Saltwater briefly blurred her vision, knowing how much that book meant to him. "I love it. I love you. So much."

" _Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone; but rather with another._ I still believe that. Because I've found it with you."

No longer able to stand it, she hugged him tight, trying to keep from crying any more. Through his shirt she could hear his heartbeat, the steady rhythm that gave so much more meaning to her own life. The man it kept alive was her future, and she marveled sometimes at the stroke of fate that had brought them together.

"And speaking of finding things – I have no idea how to navigate Amsterdam. Lead the way?" he asked.

And so she did. Outside, the sky above them was clear and blue, and it seemed to be almost too perfect a day – the sun smiling down on them, the two of them smiling at each other. Bridges linked the many sections of the city, cobblestone streets and alleyways paved with history. It was exciting, pointing out all the little landmarks along the way. She savored any opportunity to teach him something he didn't already know, and this country was one of her areas of expertise. At first, she rushed through the information, before reminding herself that they weren't in ever-present danger of the Bureau summoning him away.

It was strange to think about having four more days with him. There had been the two weeks she spent at his apartment, but he was sick for the majority of them, making it difficult to fully enjoy them. Every other time they made long-term plans, he seemed to get called out on a case. This time, he was completely coherent, and she didn't have to spend every minute wondering if the ring of his cell phone would steal him away.

"Did you know that while Venice has 12 more canals, Amsterdam has 872 more bridges? And that the reason row houses are so tall is because homeowners were taxed based on the amount of street space a house took up? By building tall, narrow houses, they could avoid having to pay higher taxes. There are also more bikes than people in the city." Spencer rattled off facts as they stood outside the museum, waiting in line.

"You're not the only one who knows things," she teased.

"Teach me something, then."

"Well, Doctor, did you know Van Gogh painted _Starry Night_ while staying in an asylum in France? And fluid turbulence is one of the most complex concepts in modern physics, but there are several paintings of his that mirror natural turbulence in the most mathematically precise ways. Interestingly enough, they're from the times in his life when his mental health was at its worst."

He wrapped an arm around her waist, smiling. "That, I didn't know. But I do love learning things from you." Then, "Do you even know what fluid turbulence is?"

"No," she laughed. "I figured you would be able to explain it to me."

When people saw them together, could they tell that everything was different now? That whatever it was that had drawn them together, that bound their souls together was doubly reinforced? Every promise made was now solidified by that most recent vow, and it was such a feeling that she felt almost certain it was tangible, visible all around them. If nothing else, it was clear in the rings they both wore, two circles that clearly meant _I belong to someone_. Not a claim of possession, but a profession of companionship. Perhaps it was less belonging _to_ and more belonging _with_.

They belonged together, wandering the halls of the Van Gogh museum. As if every painting was there just for them to see. It may as well have been that way, the two were in their own little world, enveloped in a place completely inhabited by happiness. Every time she caught him looking her way, she had to smile. And even while surrounded by masterpieces in the Rijksmuseum, she found her gaze continually wandering back to him. Just to make sure he hadn't disappeared, that this wasn't all some dream too good to be true.

It was better than any dream. Countless days in The Hague had been marked by the quiet, permeating wish to have him there with her. Two years and a few surprises later, that wish was real. Everything was better, brighter, more beautiful when the person you loved was beside you.

The sun was just beginning to slip into canals when the pair returned to their room. At the sight of their suitcases still on the floor, they begrudgingly realized they still needed to settle in for the week. With two sets of hands, they made quick work of putting clothes into drawers and setting books on the table.

Having unpacked, they sat side by side on the bed, their legs brushing. She could feel her pulse quickening. This was their first real night together as a married couple, and she knew what that was supposed to mean. It wasn't necessarily that they'd planned on waiting until they were married, but between their work and her uncertainty, it had worked out this way. Ever since that morning in Nevada, she had been thinking about it, trying to prepare herself for this very moment.

"Spencer," she said. "I know we haven't talked much about this since Vegas but…" Bianca trailed off, not knowing quite how to continue.

But he seemed to understand – there were benefits to being married to a profiler after all – and he looked at her, wetting his lips before he spoke. "We don't have to do anything tonight," he said. "If you're not ready, that's okay."

"No," she said firmly, making up her mind. "That's what being married is about, right? Making a commitment to each other, taking risks together, being intimate with another person. I mean, I'm a little scared still, but I'm ready. Or at least, as ready as I'll ever be." She shifted on the bed, steadying herself. "I mean, I know how sex works. I understand it but… I don't really know what I'm _doing_."

Spencer smiled timidly. "I don't have any experience either. But, uh, I have done some research since then. It all makes sense in theory, but well, the only way to find out is in practice." She couldn't help but let out a nervous laugh. Of course he had, that was just like him. It was amusing to picture him poring over the Kama Sutra between case files and physics books.

"I have an idea this time," he began. "What if we treat this like an experiment? We can talk through it if we need to, and we'll go slow, figuring it out as we go along. Together. And if at any point, one of us is uncomfortable, we'll stop. Is that okay?"

It seemed so much easier when he tried to break it all down to a science that way. A formula of movements and equations and responses. She nodded and he stood, moving away from the bed. "Come here then," he said, beckoning her with his hand.

Bianca followed, standing before him. "So what first?" she asked, feeling slightly awkward. Their two previous attempts had been sudden and flustered, and both times an emotion far removed from love or desire had gotten the best of them. Outside of that, they had spent so many hours together, but when they were together it was so rarely a physical connection. They were intimate with their minds and their hearts, and that was what they sought from each other with each encounter, conversations punctuated by kisses and the holding of hands and slow embraces.

"Start with something familiar, to get rid of the tension, I guess." Familiar. She could do that. It seemed like a good place to start, so she reached for his hands, lacing her fingers through his and gazing up at him, a blush creeping into her cheeks. His grin was deliciously crooked, and she stood on her toes to kiss him as she had done so many times before. Kissing him was like drowning in the ocean, overwhelming her senses, and deepening as they continued. His teeth grazed her bottom lip and her stomach clenched, because _that,_ that was new. It was new and she wanted to find more, every new and tangible secret. He wrapped his arms around her, and she pressed close to him, the two of them now leaning against the wall for support, as love suddenly seemed a very unsteady thing.

Eventually he moved his mouth from hers to just beside her ear. "Is – is it okay if I touch you?" In response, she ran a hand down his forearm. In turn, he traced a path up the inside of her of her wrist, and it sent a tremor through her. They had touched each other plenty of times before, exploring the geography of the body, but their maps had marked, unspoken boundaries. He had always been a gentleman, never going beyond where he knew he had permission to go. Now though, they had agreed to knock down those walls. Nothing was off limits anymore.

She could feel his hands on her shoulders, and she reached for him, like symmetry. Together, they tested these new borders, more deliberately than they ever had before. He caressed her chest tenderly, as she worked her fingers up his back; his touch traveled down her spine, hers across his stomach, each motion growing more sudden and urgent. It seemed abruptly clear that this would be more satisfying without fabric in the way. Since her sundress already left her shoulders and arms bare, she busied herself with working away at the buttons down his shirt, exposing his torso; before reaching up where her fingernails grazed the nape of his neck and tangled in his hair. Only three times had she ever touched him so much, but never quite like this. Nothing had ever been quite like this.

She slid her hand down his chest now, and he explored her waist, and then all at once they paused, having reached an impasse, another bridge to cross. His hands were low on her hips, and she had stopped with her fingers clasped around the buckle of his belt. She gulped, realizing there was a bulge straining against his pants that hadn't been there before, and something in her stomach lurched, a feeling she couldn't quite name, as an understanding crashed over her. This was happening, really happening. Sensing her hesitation, he tilted her chin up and when their eyes met there was a nod of silent understanding, a mutual agreement to continue. With fumbling hands she flicked open his belt to undo his trousers; then raised her arms so he could lift her dress over her head before shrugging out of his shirt.

They stood with only one layer between them now. This was the most they had ever seen of the other, and this was something Bianca had been dreading, exposing herself so completely to him. Whereas some women had a select few parts of themselves they criticized, her entire body was one overarching insecurity, and she felt terribly self-conscious. He looked over her with ardent eyes, a soft breath of, " _you're so lovely_." And then his fingertips were tracing her spine and the sensation began to erase the doubt, the touch like an electric shock, making her shiver.

She reached for Spencer again, drawn to him, and motions were repeated without barriers, venturing further to explore all the places left untouched, just skin on skin, magnifying every feeling, and _oh_ , was it possible to need someone so much? He was the whole world, and still she couldn't get enough of him. All of her felt flushed, too alive and too aware, but beautifully so, everything was beautiful now, and _he,_ he was radiant. She moved her fingers along the line of his of clavicle, as she did so his hands froze where they held the sharp angles of her hips. Stretching up to the very tips of her toes, she kissed the spot just above his collarbone, and he tightened his grip on her waist, holding on to her for fear he might fall over, might melt right where they stood.

It took all the willpower he had to lean back from her ever so slightly, shifting before closing the distance again, and she felt his mouth roaming over her jawline, and she practically whimpered, but then, _oh_ , his lips were on her neck and she _moaned_ , for when he did that she felt like all control had evaporated from her body and she was merely a series of nerve endings, live wires hot from everywhere he had been.

Everything felt so incredibly sudden and present and there and she wasn't sure how much longer she could stand it. When he finally pulled away from her his breathing was heavy and uneven, and she realized her own breath was shallow too, as though the heat building within her was desperate for some way to escape in every ragged exhale. A single moment of observation was all it took to know that every part of her was warm, and when exactly had she started trembling?

"I think," she said, her voice thick, "we should probably lie down." He nodded and pulled her along with him back to the bed, where they shimmied out of the last remaining layer of clothing, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it – was it even possible to feel your pulse in every part of your body that way? – as she guided his shaking hands to unclasp her bra.

Their mouths moved across skin still, trading frantic kisses in a rush of passion, messages of lips and teeth and tongue. _This_ , this was so far removed from the night she had pushed him onto her sofa in a misguided attempt to prove a point. Nothing about that evening had felt quite right except for his presence, but _everything_ in those precious seconds felt indescribably wonderful. There was fumbling, of course there was fumbling – between them, around them, as he grabbed for the packet on the nightstand– but even so the air itself seemed to be charged with need and with desire, as he laced his fingers through hers again and they finally gave in to that most primal instinct, coming together so completely.

It was new and it was clumsy and it was imperfect and it was finally a release from that electric charge. They figured it out the same way they had everything else – together, talking through things as needed and asking permission every step of the way. He tried to be gentle and careful, but a look of concern passed over his face as he saw she was crying. She had barely registered the fact, so much of her was trained on him, and the tears were as hot as the rest of her skin felt.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked warily, his voice so soft.

She shook her head, trying to find the words to explain it. "No, it's okay," she whispered back. "It's just that after all this time, I didn't know there was still such a powerful way to say _I love you_. But every touch from you says that, and I love you. I _love_ you so much."

"And I love you," he murmured, his mouth moving towards her neck once more. When it was over, when the desperate heat within their veins finally began to cool, they lay under the covers, breathless and dizzy. She rested her head on his chest, her body against his, and his hand stroking her hair, the both of them basking in utter contentment.

"How did that theory of yours turn out, _Doctor_?" she asked.

His chuckle was a rumble deep in his chest, one she could feel against her cheek. "Even better in practice. Incredibly so. I think this warrants further study."

Bianca traced lazy circles on his chest with her fingertips. "I think I can help with that," she purred.

Eventually Spencer asked, "What now?" Now, she thought, came the rest of their lives. All the walls and all the barriers broken between them. Now, they were no longer afraid, now she knew him more intimately than she did any other human being. And perhaps all of those things would have answered his question, but there was a practical response as well, and that was the one she gave him.

"Honestly? I haven't had a chance to shower since the wedding, and it's a little hot in here."

The bathroom had a small shower and a large bathtub, and so they went with the latter. Once it was filled it to the brim with water they sat at opposite ends, facing each other. Despite the size of the tub, he still had to pull his knees into his chest to fit comfortably. Bianca passed him the bottle of shampoo, and only after he had scrubbed it into his hair did he became aware of his present conundrum.

"How am I supposed to wash it out?" For all its depth, the bath wasn't particularly long. He looked genuinely puzzled and she smirked back at him.

"Like this," she said. In one swift, fluid motion she slipped under the water, combing her hands through her short hair before popping back up and wiping the water from her eyes. "See? Easy."

He frowned at her, arms crossed, and with the suds in his hair he looked so ridiculous a giggle left her lips before she could restrain herself. " _Easy._ Easy for you to say," Spencer grumbled. "The water's practically to your chin as is."

She pretended to ponder the issue seriously, before instructing him to close his eyes, so he wouldn't see the wicked grin on her face. He could hear her turn on the faucet beside him, and the sound of water running into something, but he kept his eyes shut tight. The frigid water hit him with a shock, and he yelped as she dumped a cupful of it over his head. "Oh, you _really_ shouldn't have done that." He narrowed his eyes at her, and she quirked an eyebrow at him, the picture of feigned innocence.

"Done what?" she teased. His reply was not one of words, but of a wave of water as he splashed her. She shrieked in delight, scrambling to retaliate. It became an all out war, a battle of soap and water, until both were thoroughly soaked. They signed a ceasefire treaty with a kiss and clambered out of the bathtub. He rubbed a towel over her hair, which left it sticking up at odd ends, though when she attempted to do the same, she had to ask him to lean down.

They changed into pajamas and settled back on the bed to read, their hands still interlocked, still craving contact. In the last few hours, they had experienced an impressive spectrum of emotions. First joy, and then desire, wonder and ecstasy. And then pure amusement and delight, and now they were here, enveloped in what could only be called _bliss._

When the lights were switched off and the both of them too tired to stay awake any longer, she curled up next to him, rejoicing at the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the steady grip of his arm around her. Those few nights spent in the same bed were a strangely wonderful treasure, and she realized that now that luxury was soon to become their normal. When he came home, she would be there. When she woke up, he would be next to her. In that moment, nothing else mattered quite so much as the simple gift of falling asleep beside him.

* * *

The next day she took him out to Leiden, to give him a personal walking tour of painted poems on the sides of buildings. It took about an hour by train to reach the town, which he passed flipping through the notebook she gave him.

To say the gift touched him would have been an understatement. Much like he'd given her a figurative symbol of his heart, she had done the same. Handed him tangible proof of her love for him in a way he could commit to memory and play on repeat.

The words referenced events from early in their relationship, things like tattoos and stars and meeting her family. There were poems she'd written to him while in Verona, and poems as recent as the night before the wedding. A few had apparently been written during the time she spent helping him through withdrawal.

 _If I could, I would move mountains for you,  
hand you the moon and the sun._

I would give the world to you,  
but in this world I realize  
there is so much I cannot do for you;  
I cannot cure your heartache  
chase your fears away  
hold together your spirit so it will not break.  
Cannot give you rest  
or write you dreams  
or heal the mess  
of memories you cannot shake.

 _Footsteps away, you remind me  
there is still so much I can do.  
So I will cure your frown  
chase your loneliness miles from here  
hold you in my arms.  
Will give you my heart,  
and write you love letters  
and heal the scars  
that others have made._

 _And I can stay.  
Stay and –_

"Spencer, this is our stop." It was so easy to get lost in books. He hurried to close the notebook, following her off the train and into the town. Amsterdam wasn't far from Leiden, but the two towns were vastly different in appearance. In Virginia, you could go between cities and see similar architecture. While both places had canals and old streets and plenty of bicycles, they each cultivated their own atmosphere, a unique culture.

All afternoon, he followed her to some of her favorite places. The poems were beautiful. Bianca pointed out several in languages she didn't understand, and he was more than happy to translate them. Together they wandered to churches and historical buildings and a centuries-old fort up on top of a hill that overlooked the entire town. He'd never set aside much time for traveling; rationalizing that he could see the world through books and lectures. Now, he understood why so many people felt that longing to travel. Books could only hold so much about a place.

At one point, they stood on a bridge over the canals, looking across at the row houses and the windmill looming over them. It was so tranquil there, in the heart of the town.

"Have you thought about things with your dad?" she asked.

His father had been at the back of his mind, a thought he hadn't yet decided how to address. It was impossible to see the situation clearly, there was too much history to sift through in order to find clarity.

"Sort of?" He sighed, focusing on the sound of the water below them. Clear, gentle, far easier to understand than family was. "I don't really know how I should feel about it. He's making more effort than he has in twenty-three years, that's supposed to be a good thing. I know I should try to forgive him, but it's hard to forget everything."

There was no way of separating William Reid from his actions. As vivid as the present he could remember arguments his parents had, remembered his father leaving, and how he never showed up when his mom got worse. Coupled with the fact that he never left the Las Vegas area, and still never got in touch with them, it was hard to let go of the bitterness he'd harbored for so long. Once a grudge had been nurtured, it was far easier to let it take root than to pull it apart and analyze it.

She set her hand over his. "You don't _have_ to do anything. It's your call. But you shouldn't feel indebted to do something just because you're related to him. Whatever you decide will be the right thing."

The conflict with his father was the last thing he wanted to worry about at the moment. Not in such a beautiful place, when there were so many other things they could do. Abruptly, he changed the subject.

"You know, we could go The Hague this evening, if you want," he offered. "I'd like to see the city where you lived."

"The Peace Palace is certainly worth visiting. It's not too far by train either."

"We can go to all your favorite places there." He wanted to see the locations from her stories with his own eyes. The apartment she spent two years in, the places near the water where she would sit and write her book at, the coffee shops that she and Aoibhegréine would visit.

Not looking away from the windmill, she considered it. "Or we could, um, go back to the hotel and do some more, um, studying," she said quietly.

Reid frowned, perplexed. While she was certainly studious and determined, Bianca had always been adamant about spending their honeymoon without textbooks. "Your finals are still months away. I thought you were taking this week off from studying?"

She bit her lip, staring down at her feet. Finally she said, "That's not what I meant."

"What _did_ you mean?"

"You're really going to make me say it?" Her behavior was a mystery, and so he chose not to respond, unsure of how to proceed. When she looked up again, her face was beet red. "I mean, I want – I want to have sex with you again."

So much for subtlety, he clearly couldn't take a hint. _That's_ what she'd been trying to tell him. A twinge of guilt tugged at him, knowing how uncomfortable it made her to say something like that so outright. Her face was buried in her hands in an attempt to hide her embarrassment.

"You want to?" he repeated. It was easy for him to read up on a subject, but he'd always worried that he would fail in the practical application. Firearms, field work, delivering a baby, relationships.

The shaky laugh that left her lips was nervous, bashful. "I do. I've been trying to figure out how to ask you all day. For so long, I was so afraid of that sort of intimacy. Then last night… well, I'm not scared anymore. We have four more days to see everything, but I thought maybe tonight we could try again. Is that okay?"

Reid twined his fingers through hers. "Of course."

These were conversations they would have now. For years, they'd been comfortable in their routine, and in the certainties of their lives. Things were changing now, but it was the best kind of change. It was the start of a new adventure, a life shared together.

As they stood on the platform, waiting for the train, he turned to her. "Bianca? I love you more than anything. You know that, right?"

He wondered if he would ever tire of seeing her smile. It seemed quite improbable at this point. She squeezed his hand, where he now wore a ring of his own.

"I do," she said. "I do."

* * *

 _"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it." - Rumi_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Firstly - I think with my last A/N I gave the impression we'd reached the end. I apologize for that, haha, I'm just a rather sentimental person. For good measure, there are only about 6 or 7 chapters left, give or take a few. But I'm not quite done with them yet!  
I can't tell you how many times I wrote and re-wrote this chapter. There's so much going on, and I'm always worried it'll come off the wrong way - any feedback is so much appreciated.**

 **Thank you to EisForElephant, 22wolfgirl, the-lucky-flannel, Sanchesse, MagicBrownie, Richelle Manuels,Eminemilie, LizzyMT16 for following/favoriting this fic!**

 **And as always, to Guest** (fear not! There is more!), **ahowell1993** (I think William Reid added an interesting juxtaposition between her family and his, and between blood family and chosen family), **tannerose5** (I suppose it's a sort of happy-middle haha!), **dianakotori** (I think it is an open door, but I don't think it's possible to heal that sort of hurt overnight), **jasmine-schuh** (thank you!), **DeliciousAudrey** (no, not quite the end! Like the quote from chapter 12, it's the end of a certain time for them, but the beginning of a new phase in their lives. In response to your puppy dog eyes, I promise not to leave you hanging too much! You'll know when it's the end), **ripon** (ah, they're in Amsterdam actually! And coming from Dulles Airport in DC, it takes roughly 7-8 hours on a nonstop flight), **inperfection** (why thank you!), **love-fiction-2016** (thanks!), **Sanchesse** (this was so absolutely kind, and it means so very much to me! Thank you thank for taking the time to write all this. Much love to you as well!), **you all just make my day. Thank you so so much for your feedback, support, and kindness, and for taking the time to read this story and leave me a message. It is so incredibly appreciated!  
I'm so thankful for each and everyone of you.**

 **Things are getting a little busy for me, so my updating might be a bit more sporadic in the coming weeks, so I apologize in advance, but I do intend to finish this story. :) I won't leave you hanging for too long!**


	34. 34) Falling Stars

_"We've all done this – created our mix and match families, our homemade safety nets." – David Levithan_

* * *

The flight home was always longer. Movies and books helped to pass the time, but they could only do so much. After a patch of turbulence over the Atlantic, the seatbelt sign had remained on for nearly the entirety of the flight. To be back on the ground and able to move about freely was a relief.

Bianca dropped her bags on the living room floor and fell onto the couch in mock-exasperation. As much as she loved traveling, it could be tiring. There were small comforts that came from familiar places, and the apartment was now a blend of her possessions and his. Penelope had taken the liberty of bringing over the last of her things from the Cairo while they were away.

Beside her on the couch, Spencer took a seat, sighing. "I always forget how much slower commercial flights are."

"Well, we're home now," she said. What was once _his_ apartment was now _theirs_. A shared dwelling. It felt right, that they should finally be under one roof. So much of their time in the last year had been spent together, they may as well have been living together as well. Bookshelves, chairs, curtains – nothing here was foreign to her. Her own possessions were slowly blending in as well. Her mugs in the kitchen, pictures of her friends on the table, her favorite books interspersed throughout his.

"Our home," he agreed, grinning. She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning in to kiss him slowly. _That_ would never get old.

"So what first? Do you want to unpack, make coffee, or shower?"

"Mmm, I'm kind of tired. Maybe we could just sit here a little while longer." His lips found hers once again, but before she could lose herself in the feeling, his phone rang. The theme from _The Avengers_ which Penelope had personally programed into his cell. "You've got to be kidding," he groaned, answering the call. "Reid here… Really? Garcia, I just got back from – yes, I know… Okay. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Let me guess? The Avengers are assembling?"

Spencer nodded, already scrambling to find his go-bag. "I'm so sorry. There's been a plane crash in Colorado, and they need us out there. I know we just got back, but hopefully I won't be there too long…" He trailed off, digging through his luggage to find one of his cardigans.

Bianca hopped off the sofa, gently setting a hand on his arm. "Don't worry about it. I'll still be here when you get back, remember?"

In the rush to re-pack, he seemed to have forgotten that small fact. The distance between them was made insignificant, no more trekking across town to visit each other. They would be found in the same place, a shared space. Home was finally home, the tangible surroundings matched the emotional definition.

He gave her quick hug, and promised to call when they landed. "Be safe," she called after him.

And then he was gone.

After the door closed, she stood there for a moment. She'd never been in the apartment without him there before. Once when he was unconscious, and even while he was asleep in another room, but never in his absence. No matter how familiar the place was, it was still a strange epiphany, that this would be their new normal.

It was easy to feel overwhelmed by the series of little revelations. Amsterdam had been an escape, and half a world away all that awaited them upon return could be pushed aside. A return to classes, to work. The constant traveling his job demanded. Separation once again. The apartment was deafeningly quiet alone. To shrug off the sense of something vital missing, she tried to distract herself.

Staying busy wasn't hard, when there were boxes and suitcases to be unpacked, and classwork to catch up on. Over the next few days, she settled in, furniture and knick-knacks finding their ways to shelves or dressers or drawers. Things in the kitchen were rearranged and grocery shopping was done. While many of the other inhabitants of the building were people she had run into at some point, she took the time to meet his neighbors.

There were five other apartments on the second floor of the building, each with very different tenants. 21 housed an older couple, their adult son living across the country; 24 was a grad student who owned several exotic fish; 25 was a single father and his twelve-year old son; 26 was the apartment of a congresswoman who was rarely ever there. And 22 was home to Mrs. Cavanaugh, a aging woman who was nice enough, but had a habit of stealing mail – and anything else that might show up outside someone's door.

When she wasn't getting comfortable at Capitol Plaza, she was down the block at the Law Center. In addition to regular classes, there were writing seminars and litigation clinics, and the ever-looming bar exam to prepare for in July. Regardless of their field, everyone seemed to be buckling down to finish out their final year on a high note.

Ivy inundated her with questions about the honeymoon over coffee, as did Penelope when she came over for a movie night. When the team was out of town, they both enjoyed the company.

"Come _on_ , give me some details!" she pleaded. "But on second thought, not _too_ many details. Because Reid is like family and that would be just - ick – but you did finally do it, right?"

The question brought a rush of color to her face. If being intimate now felt easier, discussing it with others certainly didn't. For some, it was a more casual topic, but it had taken her months to build up the courage to finally take that leap. Those private moments weren't something she wanted to share, not at length. Besides, it wasn't just hers to tell. Those confidential hours were _theirs_.

"Please, let's just watch _West Side Story_?" Garcia just stared her down. "Okay, yes. We did. And it was good. Now can we get back to Tony and Maria?" To Bianca's relief, she seemed satisfied by the response, and an interrogation was forgotten in favor of singing along to "America." Penelope's imitation of Anita was fantastically over-the-top, their laughter echoing through the living room, and for the time being, it didn't seem so empty.

Falling asleep still felt strange. Several times she had slept in that bed, but never without him beside her. It felt too big, too empty. To wake up surrounded by blankets that smelled like him, but to find that he was still gone left her longing to see him once again. For the last week she'd been spoiled by his presence, by having all that time to themselves with no responsibilities to attend to.

Another epiphany: sharing a home didn't make her miss him any less when he was gone.

* * *

He was waiting for her outside the Law Center when her classes finished. Nose buried in a book, leaning up against the railing near the front steps. With his attention elsewhere, she quietly walked up to him.

"Is it any good?" Upon hearing her, he instantly perked up, setting the book aside as a grin spread across his face.

"It is," he said, "but seeing you again is even better." Spencer opened his arms wide, and she hugged him tight. Four days ago the team left for Montana, and with a killer who turned from serial to spree, he didn't have much time to call. "I've missed you."

"I missed you too." She pulled away, quirking an eyebrow. "Although I heard you were quite the prince charming out there."

His face flushed red. "Y-you heard about that? Who told you?"

"JJ _may_ have let it slip." Embarrassed, he glanced down at the sidewalk. "Don't worry, it all sounded very heroic. You even had a glass slipper."

He took her hand, and they started down the stairs while he told her all about the avenging Cinderella they'd tracked down. "I felt bad, tricking her like that," he admitted. "But she was so wrapped up in the fairy tale, we weren't sure she would comply any other way. When you're expecting a perfect happy ending, reality will always fall short, because real life isn't like the fairy tales."

"I don't know, this all feels rather fairy tale-like. Sometimes I think love is the closest thing to magic we have." It left you feeling lighter than air, was powerful enough to break any spell, could be utterly overwhelming in the best of ways. As a child, she loved fairy tales – whether they were the versions dreamt up by Grimm or Disney.

Glass slippers and magic wands and dragons were few and far between. This was real though, walking through the District in a pair of Oxfords with a man who could practically read minds, in search of pumpkin flavored coffee. There was, however, a dragon looming in the back of her mind.

"When you thought your dad might've killed Riley Jenkins, how did you feel?" she asked.

Their footsteps echoed on the sidewalk as he collected his thoughts. "Well… I was confused. The deeper I dug into it, the angrier I felt. I think I was mad at him all along, I just never knew how to process those emotions. And I was scared."

Another thing she loved about him, he was never afraid to discuss emotional things with her. "What were you afraid of?"

"A lot of things, I think. I was afraid to revisit painful memories, I was afraid to face him again. I was also afraid that he really had hurt somebody. All my life I've known schizophrenia might affect my future, but there was a part of me that was frightened my father might have something just as dark in his genes. I had to ask myself if I would be okay knowing that I was related to someone who-"

Midsentence, Spencer stopped, turning to look at her with undisguised concern. Deducting the reason for her questions wasn't too difficult to do. Down the street, people and cars made their way towards Union Station, a steady flow of passengers.

"I know I shouldn't keep worrying about this," she said, "but I can't seem to stop. If by some chance, Rick was involved in whatever is happening in Ohio, I don't know what I would do. I wouldn't know how to feel. I don't want to be the sister of somebody who… who…"

On this side of the street, there were fewer pedestrians, fewer people to see her on the verge of a breakdown. It was pointless to keep obsessing over something so far removed from her present life, and she had no evidence to suggest that her brother _was_ involved, but she couldn't stop from asking herself _what if he is_?

He met her eyes with determination. "Bianca, you're nothing like him. Like any of them. When I thought my dad was a suspect, I rushed into things and in the end I was wrong. Don't let the same thing happen to you."

In a way it already had. Roots of doubt planted in her mind ran deep, and on nights when she found herself alone, those thoughts kept her awake long into the early hours. Even though she was older than Rick, she'd been terrified of him when they were growing up. Afraid of what he might do, petrified of the possibility that he would hurt her, or someone else. All children grew up with monsters under their beds and in their closets, but hers lived down the hall and didn't vanish when she outgrew such fantasies. The threat was amplified with time.

"Tell me something wonderful," she said. "Anything. I just need a distraction."

"Global poverty rates have continued to fall this year. In August, train passengers in Australia came together to tip a commuter train over so that a man whose leg was trapped beneath it could be freed. The ALS Ice Bucket challenge has raised a record-breaking amount of money to research a cure for the condition. And this month, the European Space Agency landed a spacecraft on a comet for the first time in history."

It never ceased to amaze her how all those bits of information were impeccably stored away in his memory. "What's so special about comets?"

There was that enthusiastic smile of his, his eyes lighting up as he launched into explanation. "It's thought that comets are composed of leftover materials from the solar system's formation, and that they may have been the primary source to deliver water and other organic molecules to the earth. If we can study them more closely, we may be able to solve some of the earliest mysteries of the universe."

It was a small pleasure she relished, being able to see the world through his eyes. Everything could be broken down to science or mathematic formulas. The whole world was an equation he desperately wanted to solve, a mystery he believed could be unlocked. If anybody could do it, it would be him. Their styles of thinking were almost opposite – he excelled with numbers and complexities, while she preferred words and infinite possibilities. The difference was that he was far better at speaking her language, than she was at his. Though getting lost in translation never prevented her from enjoying his lectures.

"Comets," he continued, "are essentially very large, very dirty snowballs. They're a combination of water, ice, and gasses; covered by dense layers of rock and dust. As dust and debris breaks off of the comet, they become meteors, falling into the Earth's atmosphere and burning up. When people claim to see a falling star, that's what they're really looking at."

"Dust burning in the atmosphere," she laughed. To put it that way sounded far less poetic. "But it still looks beautiful."

"I suppose that's why people feel compelled to wish upon them. They feel magical, in a way." They continued their walk, two people constantly in the orbit of the other. In a whole universe of dust and detritus, they looked to that bond the way sailors used to look to the stars. For navigation, a trusted guide to lead them to safe waters and back home. "Do you wish upon stars?"

"Sometimes," she admitted. As a little girl she had possessed an almost religious belief in the power of wishes in all forms. Dandelions and 11:11 and eyelashes and falling stars. Countless birthday candles and pennies had been dedicated to wishing her way out of Ohio. While an abundance of wishes and hopes still resided in her heart, she now relied on her own power to grant them. "But I don't need to wish for a happy ending. I've already got prince charming."

Spencer bent down briefly to kiss her cheek. "Your wish is my command, princess."

* * *

He'd gone straight from the roundtable to the plane, hoping to have a few minutes of quiet to make a call. She answered on the second ring, and he tried to figure out just how to explain what was going on. "I'm leaving," he said. "We have a case in Ohio."

There was a pause where he heard her draw in a sharp breath. "Is it near Olentangy?" she asked. Dread tainted each word.

"It's in Columbus," he admitted. "The missing girls. We've been asked to consult."

"Oh," she said. "Oh. Um, Spencer if you… I mean, you'll…"

Leaning back in the seat, he sighed. It pained him to hear that panic, the fear she was trying to push back. "I will. If something comes up, I'll let you know."

"Thank you." The rest of the team filed on to the jet, taking seats on the chairs and couch. Tablets were pulled out, and Hotch glanced his way, a nonverbal signal that they needed to get started.

"Of course. I have to go, we're going to go over the briefing. I love you." The phone was shoved back into his bag, and the case file took its place in his hands.

JJ raised an eyebrow. "What's that about?"

"It's nothing," he replied. "The case is pretty close to her hometown, so she was nervous. That's all." While the team knew she wasn't close to her family, they didn't need to know the specifics. Until there was concrete evidence suggesting that any of them were involved, he didn't want to voice her fears.

Right now, he just needed to focus on the task at hand. Three victims officially made their unsub a serial killer. His type seemed clear, women in their late teens and early twenties, which put him at around the same age. Always brunettes, suggesting they were either surrogates, or it was about sexual attraction. They seemed so young to have their lives cut short, just as they were beginning.

Lana Jefferson, Deb Cortez, Maria Varbanova. All near Columbus area, though Maria had been abducted from Wheeling, making her the odd one out. Perhaps the unsub was mobile? Or he may have simply been visiting an area he felt comfortable in.

Reid went with Kate to the MEs office, to examine the three bodies they'd recovered. Maria was in better shape than the previous two victims.

"No sign of sexual assault, and in all cases the cause of death in both cases was the puncturing of vital organs." Dr. Singh was a tall woman, with silver in her hair and sharp eyes. No-nonsense, and right to the point. "They were stabbed, and Lana's wounds show hesitation marks. She was definitely the first. He was still building his confidence."

Kate stared at the faces of the young women, clearly rattled by their appearances, though she kept her composure. No matter what a situation threw at her, she managed to take it with grace. "The burns," she asked, "were those inflicted ante mortem?"

All three of the women had severe burns on their face, but in a nearly straight line, right across their eyes. Blackened and singed skin replaced their features – that was a clear message. Either the unsub didn't want to be seen, or he didn't like the way they saw him. Whoever he was, he was intent on robbing them of their vision and viewpoint. Already, Reid had a bad feeling about this case.

Dr. Singh glanced at her notes. "That's another interesting thing. The first two were burned post mortem. But in Maria's case, she was still alive. You can tell by the redness around the burn scar, and the raised blisters on the skin."

Reid turned to Kate, unable to shake the grim feeling. "He's evolved to torture."

"Which means he's starting to enjoy it."

The information garnered began to piece together the forensic puzzle. The dump site was near the river, always closer to the city, suggesting he lived in Columbus and not in the suburbs. All of the victims were smart, and usually safe. But Lana was a student commuting to college, Deb had been on a campus, and Maria had been out late with friends in Wheeling. All in situations that could've made them more susceptible to a charming stranger.

An order of Chinese carryout sat waiting for them back at the station, where the team tried to make sense of their unsub's behavior. "What about the dump sites?" Kate asked. "The bodies are all left near the river. Female killers are more likely to perform water burials, could we be looking for a woman?"

Rossi tapped his pen against his notebook. "That doesn't fit though. The bodies weren't in the river just next to it. I think we're looking for a man. Still, the disposal site must hold some significance to him if he continues to return to it."

"The Olentangy River is roughly 97 miles long. Originally it was called _keenhongsheconsepung_ , a word from the Delaware tribe that meant _stone for your knife steam_. Presumably for the flint found along the shore," said Reid. "Although, given that our killer stabs his victims, that could be part of the connection."

"Or maybe it's just convenient," Morgan countered.

"The Columbus metropolitan area is home to the Scioto River as well, not to mention three large creeks that would provide a more secluded location. It can't be a coincidence that he chose that particular river."

"Reid is right," Hotch said. He gestured to the photos on the table before them, pictures of the bodies scattered between take out boxes and empty chopsticks wrappers. "This unsub is doing all of this for a reason. The burning around the eyes and the branding are specific messages. Which, like the river, we need to decode the meaning behind."

More photos were lined up on the board of the three victims, pictures of their life rather than their death. Reid couldn't help but glance back at them from time to time. Before she was married, JJ had a hard time with cases where she identified with the victims – young, pretty, blonde. After becoming a mother, it was cases with children that bothered her the most. The same went for Hotch. Morgan was perturbed by unsubs who took advantage of young children. They all had certain cases that triggered a stronger reaction than usual. For Reid, it had been anything that reminded him of his mother or Tobias Hankel. Then, Maeve. Now, staring at these women, he added a fourth sensitivity to his list. Bianca.

Families of victims often asked them the same questions. Do you have kids? Are you married? Do you know what it's like to lose someone? None of them had been married, but they weren't that much younger than Bianca. Perhaps someone had loved them that much. Dark hair. Dark eyes. What if it had been her polaroid on the board? He couldn't bear to imagine it. She was back in Washington, where she was safe. Where she would remain safe until he could see her again.

Still, the doubts she had harbored for months echoed in his mind. Could her brother have something to do with this? What if they were surrogates for a sister he resented? Thinking like that was dangerous, it was how investigators got tunnel vision. Theories couldn't be created around a possible suspect, the suspect had to be drawn from the theory. From what they knew, the unsub had to be charming enough to lure three women away from social situations and safe places, without raising suspicion. Rick Brown was too volatile to navigate social situations for long, though it was still too early to say there wasn't a chance he could manipulate his way though a situation.

Rather than call, Reid sent Bianca a text that evening, not wanting to answer any questions about the case. Investigations needed to remain quiet, he knew that if she asked enough, he would gave. Love was strength, not weakness, but she was his Achilles' heel. It was impossible to hear her upset or frightened and not give in. Not when he would traverse the earth a thousand times over just to make her smile.

It was interesting though, being in the city where she grew up. When they went out to visit his mom, he had the chance to show her Las Vegas, but Bianca had an aversion to her own hometown. What would it be like, to see this place through her eyes? There were places marked by bad memories, but there were also bookstores and cafes and parks where she found refuge from the war in her house.

His sleep was restless, but coffee and sugar helped to solve that problem in the morning. By the time he arrived to the station, carrying enough coffee for the team, Hotch was engaged in a serious conversation with the local deputy.

"Has something happened?" Rossi asked, grabbing a drink from the tray.

Hotch nodded solemnly. "There's another body. Morgan, take Reid and go examine the crime scene."

And so they went.

This time, the victim was under a bridge. Still close to the Olentangy River. Stone for your knife stream. What was it about the water that was so important to him?

She was about the right age, a pale girl with brown hair. Her dress was torn and dirty, she lay facedown in the dirt. Morgan stooped down, carefully turning the body over in order to examine it. From the second he saw the body, Reid felt a chill. Not only was there clear burning around her eyes, her entire face was blackened beyond recognition. They would have to hope dental records could be matched. Even more unsettling, the raised blisters suggested this victim had been burned before she was stabbed.

Something felt different. The burning of the entire face could be an escalation, or even a devolution. Perhaps it was personal, and this was overkill. Reid scanned her arms carefully, searching for the signature. Then, he found it. A brand, but one most unexpected. It was a signature, that much was true.

But it wasn't their unsub's signature.

"Morgan, we need to deliver the profile." He motioned to the mark on the back of the hand. "The brand is completely different. He wouldn't change that this late."

Morgan closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Two unsubs. We've got a copycat."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **We're finally getting to the bottom of what's happening in Columbus...**

 **Thank you to Kellaayyee, Trina Tiffany, L Lannister, evemarie07, DarylDixonAin'tNobody'sBitch, LittleBlueWren, BlackIce33, Heaven's Archer, aPaperheaRt, Momochan77, and Let'sDotheTimeLordpAgain for following/favoriting this story!**

 **To inperfection** (thank you! Haha, and no he isn't), **Dark-Enough-Conspiracy-Theory** (aw thanks so much!), **tannerose5** (thanks! And haha, naturally while writers want to make OCs that are worth rooting for as well, a reader's first love will always be the canon characters. They're the reason why we write fanfic in the first place! And ugh yes, if only they'd let him be happy in the show), **DeliciousAudrey** (yes finally, haha! As for Spencer's gift my thought process was this: Maeve had a huge place in his heart, and that book was a symbol of their love. He carried it with him for at least a year after all. So his giving that to her was sort of his way of letting go of that, and giving her his whole heart. Like a "I'm keeping nothing from you, everything I am and everything I have is yours." Though I suppose it could be a little awkward haha), **ahowell1993** (I suppose we'll have to wait and see haha), **and** **Love-Fiction-2016** (thank you!); **you all are so so wonderful! Thank you so very much for leaving feedback, and for continuing to read this story. It means the world!**

 **Thanks to all of you amazing readers out there. See you next chapter!**


	35. 35) Come Home

Given the extensive burns, it was taking the ME far longer to identify their latest victim. Profiling the copycat was harder, as a single crime made it hard to deduce any conclusive behavioral patterns. They needed a second person to attribute to him first, though nobody was willing to say it out loud.

The abduction and dump sites of the original three victims give them an idea of their first unsub's comfort zone. Profiling him was easier, whereas the copycat was more of a mystery. Why had he chosen to imitate this particular MO? Why now? And why this victim?

Despite Garcia's best digging, and hours of talking through theories, they still had more questions than answers when he got the call. Reid braced himself before answering.

"Hey," he said. "Is everything okay?"

"I saw on the news that there's a copycat. They said the branding was different this time. That it had something inscribed in a square." Bianca got straight to the point, not bothering with small talk. How had the media known about that? Without fail, it seemed, someone in the investigation would leak small details to the press for a quick profit. Every city, every case, something would make its way into newspapers and TV reports that had no business being broadcast to the general public. "Do you have a picture of it?"

The logical side of him screamed that he should lie, and keep her from getting involved. But with her, his heart always trumped his head. There was something about the way she asked that sounded certain. As though that was the one thing she had been dreading hearing. The symbol wasn't anything he recognized, and they had no other leads. What could it hurt if she saw it?

"I'm sending it to you now," he said. It took him a few seconds to get the photo to send by text, and when she finally received it, he heard an unsettling gasp from the other end of the phone. "Bianca? What is it?"

"I'm coming to Columbus as soon as I can," she said, her voice shaking.

He bolted upright in the plastic chair. "What? Why?" There was no need for that. He needed her there, he needed her _safe_. Not getting wrapped up in a case she had nothing to do with.

Her response made his stomach drop. "Because I've seen design that before."

Hotch wasn't exactly pleased to hear he'd sent her the photo. "It's not like we had any other leads," Reid countered. "Besides, the media already knew about it. She's not going to share it with anyone, but Hotch she recognized it. This could be what we need to find the copycat." It was best, he decided, if he neglected to mention who that copycat might be.

A few hours later, she was there, looking entirely rattled. As though she'd seen a ghost. Perhaps family was like that – there in the back of your mind to remind you of things you'd rather forget. Haunting you with memories of your own past, that which had long since been buried.

"There's something I need to explain about that symbol," she said. JJ, Kate, and Morgan were sitting around the table, going over various pieces of evidence, and Reid led her over to them.

"So you know what this is?" JJ asked. She nodded towards the picture on the wall, the burn mark on their Jane Doe's skin. "I mean, Garcia ran it through a few reverse image searches, and it didn't turn up anything. It just looks like a bunch of random shapes."

Bianca strode over to the evidence boards. Her eyes wandered to the photos tacked up, pictures of the young women. Lives cut too short too soon. Taking one of the dry erase markers, she wrote on the white board. "It's not random shapes at all. When you carve something into metal, it's easier to make straight lines than curved ones." Pointing to the picture of the burned brand, she began to draw. The largest square became a circle, the two smaller squares became something like a B with a line through the bottom. "Even now it looks confusing, but the shapes are initials." This time she started with the inner shapes, deliberately tracing each one. An R within a B within an O.

Bianca turned to them, her face grim. "ROB. Richard Obadiah Brown."

"Brown?" Morgan repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"My brother."

Kate frowned, opening her mouth to ask something. Before any further clarification could be made, Hotch and Rossi came into the station, having returned from the ME. Catching sight of them, Bianca made her way back out of the conference room to give them space to work.

"We've got an identification on our latest victim," said Rossi, once she was gone. "Name is Mia Kemper. She's a sophomore at the Columbus College of Art and Design. According to her roommates, she never came home after her shift at the campus library."

"She didn't show up on any security cameras between the library and her dorm, so we don't have anything to help us identify our second unsub," Hotch added.

"No, we do." Both agents turned to look at Reid. "Bianca recognized that symbol he used. It's her brother's initials."

"Do we really think he's the copycat? Reid, are you sure about this?" Kate asked. "It's her brother. _Her family_. What if she's making a mistake?"

"She's not!" he snapped. _He_ was her family, and she knew what she was doing. "She knows Rick far better than we do. I trust her, and I know what she's been through. If you had any idea what her family was like, you wouldn't ask that!"

"Spence, you need to calm down. We're only trying to help here," JJ said. "We don't have concrete proof that Richard Brown is involved."

"She recognized the brand! Look, just because some families are happy doesn't mean all of them are. We have a viable suspect, and you're dismissing that on the grounds that this could be part of some personal vendetta!" They had never met the Browns, they had no idea what her family was like, what Rick was like. They didn't know her story the way he did.

Hotch sighed. "Reid, you need to focus. I realize you may have a personal connection to this case, but you can't let that come before procedure. Go get some air, and when you've cleared your head, come back and we'll get to work."

Reid clenched his jaw and stormed through the station's front doors. With every exhale he tried to expunge the frantic feeling in his chest. Yes, he _knew_ Hotch was right, but it was so hard not to get caught up in it. The same way it had been in Las Vegas on the case of Riley Jenkins. Back then, he'd been wrong, and he definitely didn't want to make that mistake again. On the other hand, something felt different this time. Heavier. More plausible.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned to find Morgan standing beside him. "Alright, listen, Reid. Because I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but this isn't the first time you've worked a case that hits home for you. When you do, you tend to let your emotions get the better of you. It's when you're angry that you can't think straight."

"What are you implying?" It came out more defensive than he intended.

"Hey, just hear me out," Morgan said. "I'm not just talking about you either. The same thing happened to Hotch, and it happened to me when Emily was with Doyle. If we lose our objectivity, we make mistakes. Now I know that you just want to help her, but the best thing you can do right now is to stay calm. Hotch wants me to walk her through a cognitive. Do you want to sit in?"

"Yes. Thank you." He followed Morgan back into the station and to a quiet office in the back of the station. Bianca sat rigidly in the chair, staring down at the mug of tea before her. He took a seat at her side; Morgan sat in front of her, explaining why the interview was important and how it worked. While she was adamant she'd seen the carved version of the image, she couldn't quite remember where. Unlocking that memory could be the key to understanding _why_ he marked his victims – both their copycat and their original unsub.

"Now, I need you to close your eyes," Morgan instructed. She did. "Think back to when you were a kid. Growing up in Olentangy. Remember what it smells like, what it sounds like. Then try to remember where you first saw that design."

"The kitchen. He used to draw on things all the time, and he was drawing it over and over in crayon. It was in one of his notebooks."

"When you saw it then, it was curved, right? When did you see the _carved_ version?"

"I… It was…" She hesitated, and Reid set his hand over hers, squeezing gently. Reassuring her that she wasn't alone, that she was safe. He would keep her safe. "There was an old shed in the woods near our neighborhood. Some of the boys on our street used to hang out there, and Rick sort of made it his place. I went to get him for dinner, and he had carved it into the wood on the shed."

"Do you know why he did that?"

"To mark it as his property, I guess. But… he used to carve it into trees to, when we went on vacations. I think it was his way of saying he was there. He existed. Rick wanted to be noticed, but people never saw him the way he saw himself."

An impossible self-image that wasn't validated by the world. That desire to be noticed and craving for admiration made sense. It had to be the key. "The eyes," Reid said. "That could be why our first unsub was burning a line across their eyes. He wanted them to look at him a certain way, but they didn't. He wants to be seen."

It was his way of sending a message. The copycat however only knew that the face had been burned, thus the message was far less specific. It wasn't overkill, it was likely a misinformed attempt to pin the murder on someone else.

"I just have one last question," Morgan said. "Does the name Mia Kemper mean anything to you?"

"No," she answered, opening her eyes again. "Why?"

"That was the name of our latest victim."

* * *

There were about 16,328 murders in the United States every year, with about 21.4% taking place in the Midwest. Roughly 1,500 were committed by knife. The odds of being murdered were about 4.5 in 100,000. And despite all the statistics Spencer told her, only one thing stood out: her brother might have killed another person.

And the odds were not in his favor.

The team spent the day narrowing down the profile, using psychological traits and physical evidence. Based on the comfort zone, the materials used to burn them, and the hint of a paper trail they could find, they pieced together a short list of suspects. Bianca only caught bits of their conversation, but it astounded her the way they could zero in on an unknown subject the same way she'd been properly amazed by their profiling in New York City. By late afternoon, they believed they had found their first killer, a man named Xavier Crowe. He lived in the middle of the comfort zone, had been in Wheeling when the third victim was abducted, and been previously charged with arson.

From what she heard, Penelope had traced cell phone activity on Rick's phone to the CCAD campus, the same night Mia Kemper had gone missing. That was probable enough cause for them to question him in her murder. If he hadn't committed the crime, perhaps he'd seen the person who did. It just seemed unlikely that the latter was true.

Morgan sat down next to her. "Penny for your thoughts? You look a little lost."

She felt a little lost. A _lot_ lost. "I don't know what to think right now. One day I'm worried my brother could be involved in a crime, the next there's evidence he might be a murderer. I don't know what to believe or what to feel. Is that normal?"

He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You believe in us, little lady. In the work that we do. We're _good_ at it. And you believe in your husband, because if you asked for the moon, you best believe he would find a way to get it for you. He loves you. You're a part of this family, so we won't stop until we solve this."

"Thank you," she murmured.

"Anytime. Speaking of your husband, Pretty Boy's coming over here now. Which is my cue to give you two a little space to talk." The smile he flashed her was one of confidence. It was hard not to have faith in someone like Morgan, who was built of strength and steadiness. A rock for his team in the toughest of situations. He didn't sugarcoat, but his honesty was never meant to be harsh.

Spencer knelt down in front of her. The unit was preparing to go after their suspects, all of them fitted with Kevlar vests. While Morgan was solid and unwavering, and she valued his friendship, there was a particular sense of comfort only Spencer could provide. When she thought she might fall apart, it was his voice she wanted to hear, his arms she wanted to hold her together. After everything they'd been through together, nobody else understood her like he did.

"Hotch, Rossi, and JJ are going to find Crowe. I'm going with Kate and Morgan to look for your brother." He hesitated, weighing whether or not to keep going. "Uh, Garcia sent us your parents' address, but there's no guarantee he'll be there. Do you have any idea where he might be right now?"

She shook her head. "No, no I don't." It had been years since she'd seen him. In truth, she hardly knew any of her family at this point, let alone where they went during the day or what they did. Her father would be working. Her mom would probably be doing the same, or maybe running errands; but her brother was a wild card. Always had been. "I have no idea where Rick would go. Maybe the bar off of Dillmont? He worked there for a while after high school. There's a park near Alum Creek Lake. I don't know. I'm sorry." The one thing she could do to help the team find Rick, and she was unable to be of assistance. The dissociation from her relatives left her at a disadvantage.

"It's okay. We'll find him. We're going to figure this out, I promise you."

It wasn't until after the BAU had gone that she remembered the shed once more. Was it possible he still used it? Bianca couldn't bear the thought of waiting around in the station. It took only twelve minutes to call for an Uber, and twenty-three for the driver to drop her off down the block from her childhood house.

The woods were more imposing as they'd been when she was young. They never looked quite so sinister, capable of housing terrible things before. She thought about calling Spencer, but of all her brother's old stomping grounds, this was an unlikely possibility. Besides, he didn't need anything distracting him while he was out in the field. It wouldn't be any trouble for her to just go look.

Dying leaves crunched beneath her feet as she trudged through the trees, following a path she still knew well. The woods had been the source of countless games for the neighborhood kids. Hide and seek, campouts, make-believe quests and adventures. It didn't take long to come upon the rotting shed. It's structure was worn with weather and time, but it still stood. Just as the carved symbol was still visible on the side of the shed. Her memory had been correct.

Drawn towards it, as though pulled by a current, she drifted closer, letting her fingers brush over the damp wood. At the front of the shed was a door – no latches or locks to keep her out. It was an open invitation, so in she went. Shadows colored the floor, but enough sunlight came through the window to make the interior visible.

It wasn't much, even for a shed. Any functional materials had long since been cleared out in favor of an old chair, two tables, and a toolbox. The walls weren't empty – in one corner was a map of the city, in another was a bulletin board decorated with newspaper clippings. Closer inspection stole the oxygen from the room, and she fought to regain her breath.

All of them were about the first three victims. Their abductions, the discoveries of their bodies. Someone had highlighted particular points, all of which had to do with the damage done or the location the bodies were found in. Horrified, she backed away, only for something else to catch her eye. Photographs littering one of the tables, washed out Polaroids of various girls. None of them were people she recognized, but each was labeled with a name. The one at the very front read _Mia Kemper: CCAD 10/16/15._

That handwriting. In two decades, it hadn't changed. Almost as familiar as her own, she knew its writer instantly.

The air was thick again, overwhelming her, threatening to crush her lungs with every breath. Outside. She needed to get out of the shed, call Spencer, make things right.

No sooner had she barreled through the door and into the woods did she him.

"What are you doing here?" It was more of an accusation than a question. Rick's words had the habit of turning into threats the second they were spoken. She tried to assess the situation before her – while she wasn't a profiler, her childhood had endowed her with the ability to read her family exceptionally well. It was crucial to avoiding fights, knowing when to escape for a long drive, and determining which days were going to be good.

He was clearly unhappy to see her, lip curled and eyes narrowed. No backpack with him, which meant he came on foot and not by car. Keys were always kept in his backpack, never in his pockets. In his jacket pocket, however, there was a clear outline of an object too thin to be a cellphone. The shape was vaguely familiar. A knife. He had nearly a dozen; some hunting knives and others more like switchblades. It didn't matter what sort he harbored now, only that he had one with him.

"I – I was…"

"Looking for _me_? Why else would you be here?" He glared at her, then glanced at the open door of the shed. "How much did you see?"

 _Stall. Stall him._ All she needed was enough time to distract him, then she could call Spencer. "See? What do you mean?"

"I think you know _exactly_ what I mean," Rick said, his voice rising. "The FBI is in town, after all. I bet that's why you're here. Trying to blame me for something, just like when we were kids?"

Taking responsibility wasn't a habit of his. When confronted with the consequences of his actions, he'd always vehemently denied having done anything, even when the evidence clearly pointed to him. Fights with neighbors, vandalism, broken objects and walls in their house. It was as if he thought that by not claiming those transgressions, he had not committed them.

"I'm not trying to blame you for anything." Bianca fought to keep her voice even, not wanting to betray her intentions. "I was only walking through the woods. I used to play here, too."

It almost looked like he was starting to believe her. Until the cell phone rang. She reached into her pocket to ignore the call, but it simply rang again moments later. "I'm sorry, I need to answer this."

"No you don't. Leave it." There was a new conviction when he spoke, one that was tinged with quiet fury. "It's been _years_ , Bianca. I think it's time we had a heart to heart talk. Brother to sister. Don't you?"

What should have been an innocent suggestion was menacing when it came from him. There was a distinct aggression buried in his behavior. Any doubt about what happened to the girl in the photo was erased. The person before her was a murderer. In this situation, when danger felt imminent, what would a profiler do?

Stall. That was all she could think of. Stall him. Spencer told her once, of a time when he'd managed to distract a serial killer just by talking, for fifteen straight minutes until the prison guards arrived to let him and Hotch out of an interview room. The same principle applied here. All she had to do was keep him busy until help arrived.

"What do you want to talk about?"

"What did you _see_?" he asked again. That was how it always began with Rick. His expression would change, his voice took on an edge suitable for a weapon, and the atmosphere seemed to stiffen, burdened with the weight of unspoken threats.

The phone continued to ring. It had to be Spencer. He was looking for her. He would find her, she just needed to buy some more time.

"I saw the photo of Mia Kemper. The girl who was killed. Why did you hurt her?" Formalities and small talk would get her nowhere. Best to be direct.

Something in his posture changed at that, the admission that she knew what he'd done. "I wanted to," Rick said. No more concerned than if he were explaining a hobby, or the weather. "When I saw in the papers that someone else was killing around here, I knew the FBI would blame it on him. I'm safe."

His arrogance would be his downfall. It was at least a sign that he didn't know just how close the investigation was to arresting him.

"It was so easy," he continued. "I only had to copy what he did. I'd thought about before, but this guy gave me the courage to finally act." Courage wasn't defined by something so cruel. In her mind, that was a gross misuse of the word. Courage made you kinder. It gave you the strength to be selfless. Hurting somebody else was selfish. Cowardly.

"She was a person!" Bianca cried. "Her life mattered. You _killed_ her."

Rick stepped closer, and she realized how much bigger he was. If things turned violent, maybe she could outrun him; but she couldn't overpower him. There was no one around to hear her if she shouted for help. What a mistake it had been to come looking for him.

" _Nobody_ is going to know that," he said.

Her phone fell silent. _Please hurry, Spencer. Please find me._

* * *

She wasn't answering her phone. Why wasn't she answering her phone?

They had been unable to find Rick at any of the locations she mentioned. They had found his parents, who were less than pleased to see him standing on their porch. Upon trying to explain the situation, Don Brown informed them that his son wasn't there. Where he _was_ , the man had no idea, but if they wanted to come in and question them further they would need a warrant. Their only lead ended with a door that was quite literally _slammed_ in their faces.

Bianca was the only other person who might be able to narrow down locations in the comfort zone, but she wasn't answering her phone. Desperate for answers, Reid tried JJ's phone instead.

"Spence, we just brought in Xavier Crowe. We've got enough evidence for a solid conviction, and proof there may have been other victims. Have you found Brown yet?"

Perfect, she was back at the precinct. "That's why I called, actually. Could you put Bianca on? We can't find her brother and she's not answering my calls."

JJ's response was one of confusion. "I thought maybe she was with you. We've been at the station for the last fifteen minutes, but she's not here." _No. No, this isn't happening._ "You don't think she went to look for him, do you?"

This was a case that had been bothering her for months, ever since it's appearance in the newspaper. She'd worried and fretted over the possibility that something was wrong, and now that they were here those fears were confirmed. Just not in the way she'd expected. Which left the team scrambling to find Richard Brown, and her as the one person among them who knew his habits and hiding places. She wanted to help, she was _always_ trying to help.

"I think that's exactly what she did."

Reid relayed the update to Morgan and Kate, and together they went back over what the copycat's profile. He would need a secondary location, a place where he felt comfortable, to burn her. Access to a tool he could use to brand the victim. Somewhere private.

"Assuming she did go to find him," Kate said, "it would have to be a place they both knew about, right?"

Secluded. Familiar. Somewhere they both knew of. A sensation like ice crept through his chest. Dread. Pure dread. It was obvious, how had he not seen it? Because he was letting emotion cloud his judgment, of course. His wife was missing, her brother was a suspect in a murder, and it was impossible to think straight.

He _had_ to try and think straight.

"I think I know where they are."

It had to be the shed. That location had some significance to Rick, it was somewhere familiar but isolated. And it wasn't far. The drive from house to woods didn't take long, but in his mind it seemed to take eternities. Every passing minute stole his hope, magnified his fears.

Jumping out of the car, he could already hear voices arguing just beyond the treeline. One of which he recognized from memory, the other was one he could never forget. And she sounded terrified. Reid charged through the woods, Kate and Morgan close on his heels. Just barely could he make out the dark wooden structure, situated in a clearing. The same clearing where two figures stood.

"Richard Brown!" It wasn't until Morgan called out that he spotted the knife. At the look on the young man's face, Reid's heart sank. Rick reacted instinctively, driven by panic and fury, and grabbed the nearest thing he had for leverage.

Bianca.

Her eyes went wide with shock as her brother's arm held her back, and he held a weapon to her throat. Daring them to come any closer, taunting them with the power he now held over the situation.

 _Don't hurt her_ , he prayed. Reid had never been one for religion, but if somehow there was a god, it couldn't hurt to try at a time like this. _Please, don't let him hurt her._ That would be a heartbreak he couldn't endure. Statistics and odds swam through his head, calculating her odds of survival. Only 1.5% of murder victims were killed by siblings, the Hostage Survival Probability Model suggested that there was roughly a 42% chance she would make it out alive. A 58% chance she would not. He needed to forget the statistics, they only served to scare him more.

There was one thing probability couldn't factor in: he loved her. And he refused to let anything happen to her.

"Don't do it!" Morgan shouted. Rick's eyes swiveled around, taking in the surrounding agents and calculating his odds. The glinting blade of the knife was still pressed against Bianca's neck, her face contorted in fear. Even so she forced herself to keep her eyes open, staring straight at Reid. Pleading. For him to help her? For him to spare her brother? He wasn't sure, but he wasn't about to let anything happen to her.

"Rick, Rick listen to me," he said. "You don't want to do this. You don't want to hurt her."

"You don't know what I want!" the young man growled.

"Then tell us!" Kate said. Sizing them up still, Rick took half a step back. His sister stood stock still, not daring to move against his harsh headlock. If they didn't hurry, there was no telling what he might do. At the end of the day, Richard Brown was an unstable variable. Reid had been here before, situations where the balance of a life hung in their hands. Where that life belonged to someone he cared about. He was tired of waiting it out.

"Tell us what you want," Kate repeated. "Let her go, and we can talk about this." In the momentary distraction, Reid shifted the aim of his revolver. All those lessons at Quantico, things he'd learned from Hotch and from Morgan. He pulled the trigger.

The ensuing bang caught their attention only seconds before Rick's yell, the knife falling away into the dirt as he reached for the wound left by the bullet that grazed his arm. The team moved immediately, Morgan grabbing Rick and pinning his wrists behind his back, Kate moving in to assist with handcuffs.

Reid ran straight to Bianca, pulled her into his arms, as thought that would be enough to protect her. Tremors ran through her, as she tried to slow her frantic breathing. It was a lot to process, being held hostage by a brother. A nod from Morgan, as they led Rick to the waiting car, told him that he had permission to take the time he needed.

In the middle of the woods, he held her gently, ran his hands slowly down her back. So tight was her grip on him that he could feel her fingernails digging through his shirt, too afraid to let go.

"It's okay, it's okay," he murmured. "It's over. It's okay. You're okay." _She's okay_ , he told himself. She flung her arms around his neck, and he buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in her perfume. There was a desperate need in his heart for physical proof that no harm had come to her.

"I thought I might never see you again," she cried, her voice still shaking.

"Shh, it's okay. I'm here, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. See?" At that, she glanced up, searching for evidence that everything would be alright. That was something he couldn't give her, but he could give her his time and his patience, could give her his arms to lean on until she felt steady again.

"I'm so sorry, Spencer. I shouldn't have gone off to find him. I was stupid."

"It's okay. You were just trying to help. You weren't stupid, you were brave." Truthfully, he had been terrified as well. Because what if they hadn't arrived in time? If something happened to her, he didn't know what he would do. Losing her would be like the sun burning out, irreparably altering the color of his universe. He brushed the dirt from her hair, gave her his suit jacket to lessen the shock her body would be feeling. They drove back in silence, not needing words, nor knowing exactly what needed to be said. Nine miles, and she didn't let go of his hand once.

At the station, his team stood milling about outside, waiting. "What's going on?" Reid asked JJ, keeping his voice low.

She nodded towards Bianca. "Her parents are in there right now, with her brother. They're in the process of booking him, but since this wasn't technically part of our case, we don't have to stay."

That was probably best. But to his surprise, when he relayed this to Bianca, she insisted they go on without her. "I need to stay," she said. "There's just something I need to do. And it's something I should probably do alone." Alone was the last thing he wanted her to be right now, but he could tell by the look in her eyes she had made up her mind. If his intuition was right, his presence would likely only make things worse.

Heart heavy, he gave her one last hug, and kissed her forehead. "I love you. I'll be waiting for you to come home."

Towards the airport they went, his last look at the station the image of a dreary building against a blue sky, and his wife slowly shrinking away until the car rounded the corner, obscuring all of it from view.

* * *

The moment the black SUVs departed the parking lot, she regretted her decision. She wanted to run after them, fly back to Virginia with Spencer and his team, and leave this mess behind. That didn't feel like an option, though. Despite how little she wanted to be here, she needed closure. Bianca was too afraid to go back inside the station – the fear was hard to explain, but wasn't ready to be in close quarters with her brother and the rest of her family, should they make a scene. There was something about being out in the open that made it easier. That way, she didn't feel trapped, closed in. She could still escape.

It was quiet outside, giving no indication to the chaos taking place beyond the glass doors. The sky was clear, almost too peaceful. Compensating, perhaps, for everything the day had been. Sunshine in a storm of madness. Every time someone walked out the door of the station, she held her breath in anxious anticipation.

No books or pens in her bag, she paced anxiously, fiddling with the sleeves of Spencer's suit jacket, still hanging on her shoulders. It was almost an hour later that her parents finally appeared. Her mother's face was red, like she'd been crying. The crimson that tinged her father's skin was an entirely different sort, a shade painted on by anger. When he saw her standing there, the look he wore was unmistakably fury, enough to twist her stomach in knots and turn her blood to ice. Frozen on the sidewalk, she didn't know what else to do but wait for them to say something.

Don spoke first. "What are you still doing here?"

"I wanted to talk to you," she said, the words wavering as they left her tongue.

"I don't see what there is to talk about. You got Rick arrested."

" _I_ got him arrested?" The incredulity was impossible to mask. "He's the one who killed somebody!"

Already this conversation was off to a bad start. Her father crossed his arms, stern-faced and unmoved. "If you hadn't gone running to tell your boyfriend-"

" _Husband_. Spencer is my husband. If you'd bothered to come to the wedding, you would know that!" There was something about the way her dad identified Spencer that made her mad, how he tossed the word around as though accusing her. As though finding someone who cared about her, someone who made her happy, was some sort of crime.

"Bianca, stop," Ann said. "This isn't about you, this is about your brother."

Of course, when had anything in that family ever been about her? Unless something was her fault, she was practically invisible. Unseen, unwanted. In a house like theirs, whoever shouted the loudest, hit the hardest, was the one who received attention. Survival of the meanest, of the short-tempered. "You did inform the FBI about him, didn't you?" Don asked.

"It's not like I brought Rick here in handcuffs! The brand looked like something he'd drawn before. Innocent people were dying, I couldn't just ignore that. All I did was tell them what I knew, and the rest was just evidence!" These arguments were exhausting, always going in circles as her side of the story went in one ear and out the other. There was no right or wrong, only two opinions. Hers had always been the losing half.

"Evidence or not, you're supposed to take care of your family. Instead, you turned him in!"

"What about the family of Mia Kemper? Don't they deserve to have closure? To know that the person who killed their daughter won't hurt someone else?"

It was impossible to reason with her father. "You couldn't – you don't – know for sure that it was Rick. You only see what you want to see. And you've never appreciated what family means. For years you were so eager to leave, as if your life was so bad."

" _Don_ ," her mother warned.

He barreled on anyways, not heeding it. "You've always wanted to get away from us. So go. Don't come back."

"What?" Bianca had tried to keep her voice even, composed, but now it shook from the effort to get that one syllable out. The hands of time turned back, and she was suddenly fourteen again, huddled against her bedroom door as a war raged on in the living room, trying not to cry. To stand there as Don Brown glared at her was to be transported back to high school again, grabbing her keys and making a run for the front door only to be stopped by her father, yelling at her for running away from her problems and from her family.

How could the eyes of a parent be so cold? Fathers were supposed to be kind, they were supposed to protect you and keep you safe. They weren't supposed to be the ones you feared, and though he'd never raised a hand against her, she was terrified of him. Altogether scared and repulsed. "I said, don't come back. You've made it clear you don't care about us. You're not a part of this family anymore. We don't want you." That tone was so cold, only rivaled by the subzero stare he gave. "Don't bother to contact us again." Without any further acknowledgement, he turned his back to her and walked away, heading into the parking lot.

Her mother looked between Don and her daughter, conflicted. Her gaze settled on Bianca, and she started to open her mouth, though what she wanted to say would always be a mystery for she closed it again without saying anything at all. In a single look a million things were said. Hundreds of possibilities stretched out between them in the silence. A few yards away, the engine of a car rumbled to life. For a second, she thought her mom might stay, might apologize, might stand up for her just this once. Hope beat a furious tempo in her heart.

But then Ann Brown flashed her one last guilty look, and joined her husband in the car.

With that car, her childhood drove away. Any last hope at reconciliation or explanation left, and she was alone once again. More alone than she'd felt in ages. Half collapsing onto the curbside, she pulled her knees into her chest and willed herself not to break apart. All she wanted to do was cry the way she had when she was little, the way all children did when faced with something painful or scary. What was more painful or scary than to be alone? As something within her snapped, she clamped her hands over her mouth, bit down on the collar of her shirt to muffle the scream she couldn't hold back any longer.

In a car miles away, her parents drove away with the firm resolve that they had only one child in their family. Inside the police station, her brother sat in a holding cell, having finally hurt someone he wasn't related to. While she wasn't surprised at the turn of events, while she'd always expected something like this to happen, never had she counted on it hurting so much.

And then, looking around the lot, she realized she had nobody to take her back home.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Lots of personal drama going on in this chapter. Reid does have a history of losing his composure when things hit home for him, as I think most of the BAU does. As for Bianca, there's finally closure on things with her brother - though not the sort she'd been fearing nor expecting.**

 **Thank you to aiinuitachi, LyokoHacker, BrockenAngel22, StoryLovingAuthor, ChibiSpyStuff, Coolkittyj, aleezaenisar, Kirstene107, InsanexPrincess, and lillakemonster98 for following/favoriting this story!**

 **Thank you to inperfection** (thank you! I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations!), **dianakotori** (thank you so much! It always seems that the BAU members are being called away from home at the worst moments, doesn't it?) **, aPaperheaRt** (oh goodness, thanks! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story!), **DeliciousAudrey** (I'm so glad it made sense, haha! Fear not, they'll have plenty of time for that "honeymoon phase." Life, unfortunately, has just thrown in a few confusing curveballs as well), **tannerose5** (those always do seem to be the hardest!), **Love-Fiction-2016** (thanks!) **for continuing to be so kind and for leaving such awesome reviews. I'm so grateful for the time you've spent reading this story!**

 **I'm so grateful for each and every reader out there. If you have the time to review, it's always so much appreciated (I love hearing from you all and getting to know you!)**

 **It may be a little while before I can update again, as things are getting rather busy with school.**


	36. 36) East Germany

Reid couldn't manage to sit still. He rearranged stray books onto shelves, he paced the living room, he went for a walk around the block – three times. There was no word from Bianca, and he was worried. He'd been worried from the moment she said she wanted to stay a little while. She hadn't said how long. A few hours? A few days? Each time he checked his phone, he was frustrated by the lack of texts or calls from her. All he wanted was to know she was safe, okay. There was no precedent for this. What was one supposed to do when their spouse's brother committed a murder and their family continued to live deep within their denial? Once he'd accused his own father of murder, but the claim had proved to be unfounded. To have those suspicions turn out to be true had to hit even harder than discovering you were wrong about everything. Which was worse, to face the shame of your assumptions or to see your fears brought to reality?

At the moment, he didn't care, he just wanted to see her. He should've stayed. He should have insisted on not leaving her alone. He needed to know she was okay.

In an effort to stay sane, and keep from asking Garcia to send out a search party, he sat down with a stack of books. It didn't do much good, as he was so distracted he had to read each page multiple times before finally absorbing any information. Late at night, when he heard the sound of the key in their door, he sat straight up, pushing the books aside. She stepped in, moving slowly, like her body couldn't seem to find the strength to continue on. In the light of the lamp he could see her face clearly, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, her face tired. It looked as though she'd cried the whole way back. And then he realized she probably had.

Reid stumbled from the couch in an attempt to go to her as quickly as possible. Something in her expression stopped him just a few feet short of her. "What happened?" he asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"They don't want me anymore," she said, her voice hoarse. She'd _definitely_ cried the whole way back. "They said I'm no longer a part of that family."

"Wait, they said what?" As harsh as her family could be, it didn't seem fathomable that they would have done such a thing.

"They never want to hear from me again." Her voice broke, tears returning to eyes. There was a contorted sort of smile on her face, trying to make sense of the absurdity of the situation. "Funny, isn't it? My brother kills someone, and they still blame me. They'd rather be in denial than accept the truth." How ironic, how impossible. And yet, not for the Browns.

"What did I do? Why don't they want me? For so many years I tried to be enough for them, but I guess I'm just never going to be. They'll stand by a murderer, they want him, but they wouldn't even come to my wedding. And I know I've always said that I hated growing up with them, that I never felt like a part of that family anyways… So why does this hurt?" A sob shook through the stillness of the apartment, and she sounded like a child again, broken and lost and desperately wanting for someone to make it all better. So fragile, and in such need of comfort. It was like something had shattered within her. "Why does it _hurt_ so much?" she cried.

Before him she was falling apart, and Reid pulled her into his arms. Her whole body trembled as she clung to him. He would comfort her, he would keep her safe. He would be her family when they shunned her. As the minutes slid past, they said nothing, just stood there together. She needed to cry, and he was going to let her. When her sobs softened to quiet sniffles, he brushed one hand through her hair.

"Of course it hurts. Even if you're upset with them, even if they've hurt you before, it's still hard to give up on that hope that someday you'll get that apology, or that explanation. We all just want to be loved. Of course it hurts." He could feel her fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt, afraid to let go. "They just can't see how special you are." God, how could they _not_ see? "But so many people do. Eva does. So does my team, and Dr. Baker, and my mother, and the people you work with and study with. The people who read your books, and the people who agreed to publish them. So many people love you and care about you.

"And I do. I love you so much. For the rest of my life, I'll be trying to show you just how much. And I'm never going to leave you. I'll always want to see you, and hear from you, and I'll always want to be with you. You're more than enough. And if it hurts, I promise I'll hold onto you until it doesn't. We're a family. You and I."

Several long minutes slid by in silence as they stood in the living room that way, entwined and pressed together. Perhaps she just needed something solid to hold on to, an anchor to keep her from falling to pieces. If he could be that constant reminder, he would. Anything to keep his promise to her, to let her know she wasn't alone. How could parents leave their children so alone like that? His father had tried to justify it, claiming he'd lost the confidence to be a parent, but it only felt selfish, callous. Children – people – were delicate beings, not something to be thrown away on a whim when they no longer suited you. Family wasn't being there when it was convenient, it was being there even when it wasn't.

"Please don't let go," she murmured. How tired, how fragile she felt now. Respecting her wish, he didn't let her go. Instead he carried her over to their bed, where she curled up in his lap, her arms tangled around him. Many a stormy night had been passed in similar fashion, and this too was a sort of storm. A hurricane of hurt and sorrow. And together they would stay like that, huddled on the bed, until the calm returned, and the balance of their world was temporarily restored.

* * *

Autumn turned to winter, the colors of fall surrendering to the cold winds. Things had been quiet in DC; she and Spencer going about their normal routines of school and work. There was a need for things to feel normal, for the familiar to overrule all that had transpired in the previous month.

For the most part, Bianca tried not to think of it. The things most difficult to remember were often the hardest to forget, though. There were nightmares. There were evenings when memory caught up to her, and practically knocked her over the way it struck her. Flashbacks in the form of a concrete slab, crushing her, overwhelming her.

Through it all, Spencer was there. When she woke up in a panic, he held her close and recited poems and stories to her. When she broke down, he listened to whatever she needed to say, and gave her the words she needed to hear. Again and again, he asked her what he could do to help.

The answer was simple; she wanted only for him to be there. To go through this with someone by her side. He promised her she wouldn't have to face the demons alone. The family she'd found, the one that she had come to love, was still there. Ivy would make her coffee, and tell her about the craziest customers in the hopes of making her laugh. Eva called every weekend to check in on her. Penelope brought cookies.

Family meant the people you came home to, the ones who showed up for you. They were also the ones you wanted to celebrate with, and that included holidays. By default, Rossi was talked into having everyone over for Christmas. After all, a mansion was far more spacious than any of their apartments or houses. In light of everything that had happened in Columbus, it was unanimously decided that they could all use a little holiday cheer.

Classes at the Law Center were out for the holidays, and when she was spending time with friends or writing, Bianca threw herself into decorating the apartment. Spencer had been hesitant at first, but he humored her. Twinkle lights were strung around the door and the walls, little paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling, and a tiny fake tree took up their coffee table, adorned with a handful of ornaments. A TARDIS, a snowman, a reindeer, a little Dutch windmill, a miniature Sherlock Holmes, and a heart that read _Our First Christmas._

Making the place merry and bright helped to take her mind off of darker things. If her hands were busy, her mind had less time to wander. The afternoon of Rossi's gathering had been spent making cookies, which she took great care to hide out of Spencer's sight, for fear of having to turn up empty-handed.

Dave gave them both a cursory glance when they arrived, as she had anticipated. The previous weekend they'd gone thrifting for the ugliest sweaters they could find, and by his reaction, that goal had been accomplished.

"Hopefully your taste in dessert is better than your taste in clothing," he quipped, shaking his head.

Inside, several people were gathered in the living room, where an enormous pine tree stretched to the very top of the ceiling. "You know," said Spencer, "every year Christmas trees result in approximately two hundred and fifty fires?"

"Hush, 187, this is supposed to be cheerful!" Garcia had tinsel woven through her hair, and a large glass of eggnog in her hand. The epitome of holiday spirit, in a pair of bright red heels. It was hard not to feel cheerful, when surrounded by the team. Bianca couldn't help but notice the shift in atmosphere there at Rossi's. It was lighter, hopeful. To see each of the agents smiling and laughing was a rare sight, but one she dearly loved to see. They deserved happiness. To celebrate without a care in the world, if only for a night.

Jack and Henry were given action figures from their favorite comic book series, which demanded their full attention through most of the evening. Her heart warmed, watching as the boys ran through the living room, leaping over obstacles. No worrying that their parents would be called away suddenly. With children, parents, and "aunts" and "uncles," the team truly was a little family. All ages and backgrounds, come together for good.

They had dinner together, food and drinks shared over jokes and stories. Several couples fell victim to Garcia's strategically placed mistletoe, to the amusement of everyone. When they stumbled upon it, she didn't mind having an excuse to kiss Spencer in the hallway, when no one seemed to be watching. For that one night, they were just normal people. No agents, no cases, no tragedies.

Only Spencer found disappointment in the evening, when the tub of cookies was opened up. He peered into the Tupperware with a frown. "Hey, these are homemade! You said you were going to buy some from the store!"

Bianca feigned surprise at his accusation. "Is that so?" Several batches of decorated cookies had been hidden behind the vegetables in their kitchen, where he would never approach. "If I'd told you I was baking, I wouldn't have any to bring here. You would've eaten them."

Everyone laughed, as he begrudgingly took a cookie, not even bothering to defend himself. That sweet tooth of his was infamous, and he took full advantage of her culinary skills whenever possible.

As the hours grew later, they slowly started to drift towards the front of the hours. Coats were put on, belongings collected, holiday wishes exchanged before stepping out into the cold.

As Bianca made her way towards the door, Penelope reached for her arm. "Hey," she said, looking earnestly at her through bright red spectacles. Her tone was uncharacteristically serious. "I know things have been hard, but we're all here for you, okay? You are a part of _this_ family. We love you."

Bianca hugged her, overwhelmed by the sentiment. She knew that she was always welcome in that group, but to hear it out loud meant a great deal. Here were friends and family, here were people that unconditionally accepted each other.

"Thank you, Penelope. I love you, too." That was the simplest gift. Love. Gratitude. Belonging.

Spencer drove them back to the District, reluctantly agreeing to let her play Christmas carols on the radio. Outside, the world had turned white. Heavy flakes drifted down from the heavens, the sky having opened up to send a flurry of snow onto the city. Despite the freezing temperature, it was a lovely sight. Strolling in from the parking lot, she stopped outside their building, staring up at the glow of the lights in the snowy air, surrounded by a swirl of white.

"It's beautiful," she murmured.

Spencer wrapped an arm around her, rubbing her arm to keep her warm. Drifts of snow caught in his hair, dotting it with white. "It's also cold." Visible was his reply, coming out in a trail of foggy breath.

Enough snow had accumulated on the ground for her to swiftly bend down and scoop some up. Then she tossed it at him, hitting him square in the face. For a second he just stood there, stunned, before quickly forming a snowball to retaliate with. It shattered into bits on her shoulder, and she looked about for more snow to gather up.

"Oh no you, don't!" Before she had the chance to turn it into an all out snowball fight, he ran at her, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her down into the snowdrift, both of them laughing.

"This," she said, "is what Christmas should feel like."

"Cold? Because I'm pretty sure I've got snow in my socks," he chuckled. They tracked damp footprints through the lobby of the building, all the way up to their apartment, bits of snow falling as they went. A little snowstorm of their own.

After trading their snow-soaked sweaters for warm pajamas, he made them each a mug of tea. Bianca turned off the lamps so that only the strings of lights illuminated the room, leaving it with a soft glow. The tub of leftover cookies sat before them, quickly dwindling thanks to him.

"You know, I never really knew what Christmas was supposed to feel like," said Spencer. "After my dad left, my mom wasn't usually well enough to put things together for the holidays – any holiday, really. And then it was straight to college, then the Bureau. I didn't see any reason to celebrate a commercialized holiday alone."

Images of him danced in her mind. As a young child, sitting alone and watching snow fall outside the window in silence. Celebrating no holidays, marking the passing of years with solitude. As an adult, in an empty apartment while people met all over the city. It broke her heart.

"Christmas is supposed to feel like hope," she said. "Like warmth and kindness and possibility." The entire day seemed wrapped in ribbons, a gift of 24 hours during which the world embraced the notion of peace and goodwill. "You're supposed to spend it with the people who love you. I guess that's usually your family."

Family. That word felt so strange on her tongue now. Somehow, it had changed its definition entirely, its sound now like that of a word in a language she'd never heard before. Unfamiliar.

Bianca stared at their tiny tinsel tree on their table. "You know, we always made a big show of putting up the tree. Every year, Rick would want to open just one present on Christmas Eve, but every year my parents said no." She paused, struck by the memory. All those little things suddenly felt wrong to recall, tainted by the truth of recent events. "It's – it's not like there weren't _any_ good times. There were things that felt nice, like that. I guess all of that is over now though."

It felt so final, the end of a chapter in her life. For years she had been with the notion of not having a family in the traditional sense. Now that they had made it clear she wasn't a part of it, it felt different. Emptier. Devoid of the possibility that something could get better. Had their ever been a chance of reconciliation, it was certainly dashed now.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She pushed back the wave of emotion, of sadness that threated to rise in her chest. "No, it's okay. I just… I don't want to think about that right now. This is our first Christmas together. I want to spend it making new memories with you, not getting upset over old ones."

"Hey." Spencer inched closer to her, setting a hand over hers. "Do you remember how theoretical physics?"

"Not really. What does physics have to do with Christmas?"

His hand was warm, and his smile, soft. "In physics, for most theoretical problems we have to assume they're set in a vacuum, a state where no external conditions can interfere. The trouble is, the real world doesn't work that way, which makes the practical application much more difficult than the theory."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that life is messy, and we can't predict everything. It's like physics. Things don't work in the real world the way they would in an ideal vacuum. But in the real world, you're not alone. I _won't_ let you go through this alone."

It sounded as much a promise to himself as to her. Always was she amazed by him, but at times like this she felt especially grateful for who he was. Possessing a gentle strength, and enough compassion to melt her heart. If the definition of _family_ had indeed changed, shrinking to an extent, it had also been steadily expanding over the years; albeit in a different direction.

"I know. I know I'm not alone. I have my friends, and my classmates. I have a family that I've become a part of, thanks to you." The people she'd gained as an adopted family when he made her a part of his life. It was the best sort of gift, to give someone a space to belong in. "And you. You have been my family for much longer than two months."

She leaned against him, and they sat there in the quiet, surrounded by the shining colors of the lights. Between them, there were moments that didn't need words. It was understood without explanation. It was sensed. A morse-code message of heartbeats, whispering echoes of their deepest sentiments.

A single sequence of gestures often sufficed to say enough. It could be as simple and straightforward as a hug or a kiss, as intrinsic as searching for a hand to hold. He would roll over in bed, buried beneath layers of blankets on a Sunday morning, and stare at her with a grin creeping across his face. She would sit next to him on a park bench, a book open in her lap, and loop one arm through his, sighing in the most contented of ways.

That was enough. It was always enough, just to be together.

"Let's open one gift tonight," he said, finally breaking the silence. "And make this year different." Before she could answer, he grabbed one of the presents from beneath their tiny tree. Only five wrapped packages were there, two for each of them, and one from his mother. "This is for you, although it contains something we can both use."

Inside the wrapping paper was a little box. The box itself was filled with tissue paper, but she pushed it aside to reveal two shining objects, gleaming in the dim light.

"I don't understand," she said, looking at him for an explanation. There was a round locket, accompanied by a pocket watch; gold reflecting the lights around them.

"Well," he said, lifting them from the box. "You have to look closely." With all the flourish of one of his magic tricks, he turned them over. Each had a small stone affixed to the front. Birthstones. Opal on the locket, aquamarine on the watch. Assuming the watch was for him, they were reversed. They had the gem belonging to the other. "The most important part is inside."

The watch and the locket were both opened, and he showed her another similarity between them. Photographs, perfectly framed within, mirror images. It was a snapshot of their wedding, in the middle of their first dance. Foreheads touching, both laughing, her arms around his neck.

"I know my job takes me away a lot," said Spencer. "And there might be entire weeks that we're apart, but you're always with me. I wanted a way to show that even when I'm gone, we're still together. It's not much, but it's a little piece of you, and of me." In one hand he took the locket, and moved to sit behind her. The cold metal of the necklace came to rest around her neck as he fastened it for her. Instinctively she reached for it, holding the round pendant in her palm.

Neither put too much stock in material things, but she found it lovely, the notion of carrying that moment around. Always was he in her heart, but this was something she could physically hold. One of their happiest memories, and her favorite photograph of them.

She sat up on her knees, turning around to face him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "You, Dr. Reid, are absolutely brilliant. And I love you." A hint of peppermint from the cookies still lingered on his lips as she kissed him, and his fingers found their way beneath the hem of her shirt to wander up her back.

"And I love you, Mrs. Reid," he murmured, pulling her closer, reinforcing that she had a new family to belong to. That he loved her enough to let her decorate their apartment for a holiday he'd never been sure of, to let her throw snowballs at him, to stay awake with her when she couldn't sleep. There weren't enough words big enough to describe the love they shared. Love seemed too casual a term for all they'd been through.

Devotion, perhaps. Commitment. Adoration.

There was a Dutch word, _gezelligheid_. It was a warm feeling, time spent with loved ones, a place of belonging. Even that didn't come close to touching what she felt. He was a central part of her life and of her heart.

They settled down on the sofa, clad in pajamas, as she flipped through the channels in search of _It's a Wonderful Life_. He'd never seen it before, and she was determined to change that. Curled up beneath a thick quilt, they watched as Clarence the angel tried to save George Bailey's life. His breathing slowed, his arm loosened its hold on her, as Spencer fell slowly into slumber.

The volume was turned down, and she lay there, listening to the familiar dialogue while her gaze remained on him. It truly was a wonderful life, the one she had. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't easy. But she was surrounded by people she loved, studying what she was most passionate about. It was a life she had to fight for, and work for, and that made it all the more worth it. It was a life she loved.

Beneath the tinsel tree, gifts waited to be unwrapped. Multiple pairs of socks, a copy of Antoine de Saint-Exupery's _Terre des homes_ in its original French, a first edition Ray Bradbury, a very long handwritten letter that had traveled all the way from Las Vegas, folded in a package between two mugs. Waiting for tomorrow.

And tomorrow was another day to spend with him, reveling in this life they were building together.

* * *

He could only hope the file would be enough. Emily gave him as much as she could find, all for JJ's sake. Information always helped him to keep a level head, making the universe more rational. Would it do the same for her? This went so much deeper than the abduction or the torture. It was about the things Askari took from her. The things Hastings took from her.

PTSD, he understood. The nightmares and the flashbacks and the terror. The guilt and the fear. But the baby, that was something he couldn't possibly comprehend. An unimaginable loss. Tobias Hankel stole his sanity and his mind, left him with an addiction and cravings. JJ had been handed something heavy as well – the loss of a child she would never meet.

Something he couldn't explain or rationalize. Reid sat slumped on the metro, wishing he could do something. Wishing he would've just kept his mouth shut.

 _You think you know what's going on, but you don't._ He wasn't trying to be a know-it-all, he just wanted to help. Empathy was a blessing and a curse, and he felt everything so very deeply. When someone he loved was hurting, it hurt him. And he couldn't just ignore it. Until his doing something made everything worse. _What is the word for that, Spence?_

Words could be so very inadequate. They could not always heal things, whether those wounds be in the mind or in the heart. They were also very capable of hurting people, and turning good intentions into a huge mistake. Over and over in his mind the conversation played. Rewound and replayed. On a loop he asked himself, did he do more harm than good?

When he finally got home, he found Bianca was curled up on the sofa with her laptop and textbooks.

"Hey, you. Welcome home! How was Nevada?" Even her smile seemed unable to reach him. It felt miles away, and he felt undeserving. Noting his distance, she closed the screen of her laptop and motioned for him to sit beside her. "What's wrong?"

 _Stop it. Stop doing that. Stop being you._

"B, do you ever wish I was less… like me?" The phrasing felt awkward, but he wasn't sure how else to put it.

She tilted her head to the side, searching his eyes for an explanation. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean, the things I say and the things I do – do you ever wish I would stop doing them? Like when someone's upset and I start using facts and statistics to explain things, and I just end up making it worse." One of the clearest examples was the night she took shelter in the bathtub. "I did that to you once, when there was a thunderstorm."

Was this problem more common than he thought? What if he'd been doing this all his life, and only JJ had managed to confront him about it?

Bianca placed her hand on his shoulder, a comfort to counteract that despair he felt. "You're forgetting that you also made things better. You helped me get through the night because you were logical and rational. What you do is your way of helping people, and it's the best way you know how."

Her fingers traveled down to find his hand. The gesture made him feel important, wanted. No matter what, she would want to be close to him, she would make him feel better. Shying away from physical touch so often, he relied on his verbal communication to get through to people. But the littlest things, the act of palpably connecting with another human being could go a long way towards easing tensions.

"I would never want you to be less like you," she murmured. "It's _you_ that I fell in love with. What happened to prompt this?"

Not one to betray secrets, Reid tried to navigate around the truth to avoid giving too much away. "Someone on this case was having a hard time, and I thought I understood what they were feeling. I was trying to be helpful, but instead I upset them further. And I feel awful about it."

"Did you apologize?"

"O-of course! I tried to make it up to them, I just don't know if it was enough." It _had_ to be enough, because JJ deserved that much. After everything that happened, she needed something to make sense.

 _I'm glad I did my job, but this doesn't go away because of some surrogate._

"Then listen to me," she commanded. When she had his attention, she placed her hands on the sides of his face. As always, her fingers were cold, but the chill calmed his racing thoughts. "When I look at you, I see the most amazing man. You don't think like everyone else, but because of that you make connections nobody else can." That cold touch traveled to his lips. "You speak with the best intentions, and with empathy. Rarely do you use your words to deliberately hurt someone." Further down, to his chest. "You love deeply, and you would go to the ends of the earth in order to help somebody you loved." Finally, back to his hands. "You make people feel safe. Maybe you're not intimidating like Hotch or athletic like Morgan, but you have a way about you that makes the people around you feel secure. You are _so_ enough."

All of the things he doubted about himself, she took the time to prove to him. His worth wasn't determined by the opinions of others, but if there was one opinion he valued, it was hers. Cliché claimed that it was impossible to love others until you loved yourself, but he found it difficult to believe. There were days when he didn't like himself at all, wanted desperately to be anybody else. To be normal. But her, he loved her beyond words. It was in loving her that he found it easier to accept himself, because she showed him he was worthy of being loved in return. For inexplicable reasons, she adored him in all his imperfections. Of all the other people he could possibly be instead, he was the one she wanted.

"I really needed to hear that," he said. In mimicry of her motions, he cupped her cheek, gently bringing her closer to him. "How is it that you always know what to say?"

"Because I'm a writer," she laughed. "It's sort of required."

That laugh lifted the tension weighing upon his heart, and he was happier just hearing that laugh. In the weeks since her father's declaration, it had been a rare sound. He would come into the kitchen and find her staring down at the vegetables in her hands as if she had no idea what to do with them. Mid-conversation she might pause, and a far-away look would return to her eyes. Long runs in the morning turned into even longer runs, as though she were trying to find the answer to the mess in the DC pavement. It was clear she was still grieving the loss of parents who were still living, and a relationship that had barely been there to start with.

Not wanting to lose that smile, he nodded towards her laptop. "I didn't mean to interrupt your work. What are you doing?"

"Getting ahead on some midterm papers."

"Tell me about them. I want to learn something new."

She raised her eyebrows. "Are you sure? It's for advanced immigration law. Not exactly the most riveting of subjects."

"Positive. Come here," he beckoned, patting the spot beside him. She sidled up close to him, balancing the computer in her lap.

"Immigration law," she began, "varies widely between nations. While there is no comprehensive international ruling to set mandates on the migrations of persons, the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights serves as a starting point to inform lawmakers' views on the freedom of movement."

As she led him through her paper, he tried to focus on the gentle sound of her voice, on the weight of her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her, hoping that small gesture would be enough to make her feel secure for now, to let her know how much he valued her. In a brief timespan she had both gained and lost a part of her family. It was his job to be the part that stayed, the person she could come to when she ran out of words to explain how she felt.

When that happened, he would be the one to hold up all the things he most loved about her, and remind her just how much she was worth.

* * *

Bianca sat on the sofa, staring out through the apartment window at DC. It was already 10:30 PM, and still no word from Spencer, other than a phone call a few hours ago to let her know that he would be coming home late. Something about paperwork, but after all this time she'd come to recognize that waver in his voice when he was telling a lie he didn't quite believe.

Gideon was dead, and all she wanted to do was hold him and talk to him, but she knew that he grieved in his own way, that sometimes he put up walls and shut people out because he was afraid of what might happen if he allowed himself to feel as deeply as he did.

What was she supposed to say this time? Gideon was practically his father, he had to be devastated. Never had she imagined this day would come. To her, the old profiler seemed like an invincible legend, this grand myth who would never die, never fade. And now he was reduced to a terribly ephemeral human form, one who was gone too soon. It wasn't fair, that Spencer had to lose so many people without being able to say a proper goodbye. Everyone deserved closure.

Closure, she decided, was something that she wasn't going to get tonight, as 11 o'clock came and still nothing from him. Bianca resigned herself to sleep without him, and woke to discover that he was on his way to Indiana to consult on a bombing case. When he was away, she always worried, always hoped that he would be safe. This time was no exception, especially considering the emotions he had yet to deal with, the unresolved feelings about Gideon.

"Look, Gideon was a good agent," explained Morgan. Worried about Spencer, she'd called him to ask if he was okay. "But he could also be manipulative. Did he mentor Reid? Yes. Did he take advantage of him sometimes? Absolutely. Despite that, I still think Reid felt responsible for Gideon. The kid was looking for a father figure, and Gideon fit that profile."

That man helped to fill in the missing parts of Spencer's heart. Played a role that had long since been absent. After all, Gideon had hand-picked him out of the Academy to join the BAU. In those days, it was so rare for him to be recognized by his peers for his abilities and not as simply a freak who could recite textbooks with ease. It was the first time somebody showed him just how much good he could do in the field.

Seven years ago, he'd lost Gideon. To lose him a second time, permanently, would be devastating.

It took three days before he finally came back, brushing brusquely through the door of the apartment that evening. "There you are," she gasped, rushing to greet him. "How are you doing?"

"I'm alright. Kind of tired." The barriers, they were up in full force, a fortress around his heart. "Rossi beat me in a chess match on the plane, if that speaks to anything. Sorry for not calling sooner."

"Listen, about-"

"Bianca, I _don't_ want to talk about it."

Spencer tried to dodge past her, but she stepped in his way, placing her hand on his chest, over his heart. That still-beating organ, keeping him alive, and yet the one he protected most from the world. She rubbed her thumb slowly over his shirt, keeping her palm pressed against him as she met his gaze. "Hey. You remember President Reagan?" Puzzled, he nodded. "Well then, _Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall_ ," she said, parroting the speech the late president once made in Berlin.

"I'm not East Germany," he mumbled.

Bianca wrapped her arms around him. "I know. So please, let me in, my love." For the last few weeks, he'd been her anchor, comforting her as she wrestled with her feelings in the aftermath of her brother's arrest. Now, he needed someone to comfort him.

The options played out in his mind, she could picture him weighing the options. Build a better wall, or break it down for her? He seemed to teeter on the edge, pursing his lips as he considered her offer. And then he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wipe tears away with the heel of his hand. The wall tumbled down with surprising force, as Spencer stumbled forward and she tried frantically to support him, at least enough to get them both gently to the living room floor where she could hold him closer.

He sobbed into her shoulder with enough sorrow to draw water from her own eyes. How many times was she going to see him like this, so hurt by the cruelty that existed in this world? When his eyes were finally dry, they shuffled onto the sofa where she ran her fingers over his chest while he told her all about Jason Gideon; his life, his story, his family. The things that he'd learned from Gideon, the way it felt to lose him. They stayed that there for hours, sprawled out across the couch and clinging to each other.

The last thing she could remember was closing her eyes while he told her about the time Gideon had purposely missed a lecture, so that Spencer would have to take over and get comfortable speaking in front of others. He'd stammered his way through it, made several awkward jokes, and eventually gone into a tailspin of statistics from the wrong case he'd been so nervous. With fifteen minutes left of the class, Gideon finally took pity on him and showed up, dismissing the class early and buying him milkshakes to make up for it.

She woke up on the sofa alone. Morning light filtered in through the curtains, casting a faint glow on the armchair where Spencer sat, scribbling at a breakneck pace in a notebook.

"What are you doing?" she mumbled. Still groggy, she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Pencil flying across the page, he was silent for a moment before, apparently satisfied with whatever he'd just written, he paused to look at her. "I didn't want to forget," he said. The hurt in his voice was diminishing, replaced by a quiet longing.

"You won't." Not with that incredible mind of his. He would remember. He remembered all the important things. It was both a blessing and a curse for him. Bianca stood, wrapping the blanket around her like a cape, and padded across the floor to him. Her arms wrapped around him, and she placed a kiss on his forehead. Enough to let him know she was there for him. Little reminders that she cared, that he could be vulnerable here. He squeezed her hand, and they stayed that way, enveloped in a caress of warmth and tenderness. A soft place, far away from the reach of any tragedy.

"I'm going to get started on breakfast," she said, pulling away reluctantly.

"I'll help you."

"I want to make breakfast, Spencer, not burn the apartment down. You keep writing. I can handle omelets."

He laughed, and she ventured into the kitchen, blanket still snug around her shoulders.

This was the way that broken things fit back together. This was the way wounds left by losses began to heal.

Kintsukuroi. The art of filling all the cracks with gold. Transforming the pain into something beautiful. The two of them, patching each other up bit by bit, with warm hands and a love that knew no limits.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Let my begin by saying I'm sorry for taking so long to update! School has been crazy busy, but I've finally had a free moment to post a new update! So much happens in Season 10... this ended up being a bit of a heavy chapter. They're both dealing with some hard things and with loss, but they still find the strength to support each other.**

 **A special thanks to jaz7, xcherryxlipsx, Mariale-26, LunaTheAwesome Jordan, slalmoussawi, That Sweet Bit, darkninjakitty10, emoly90, bluedecor, thealitaylor, and dallas1990 for following/favoriting this fic! Welcome aboard! :)  
**

 **To jasmine-schuh** (there is closure, and while it takes time to heal, she has a very strong support system!), **dianakotori** (it was definitely reckless, but I definitely wouldn't want to hurt Reid like that again! As mentioned in this chapter, that relationship with her relatives is complicated, but she has a wonderful group of people who _do_ love her), **and** **Love-Fiction-2016** (thank you!), **I'm so grateful for your feedback! Seriously, you're wonderful, and I appreciate you so so much.**

 **I love hearing from you all - if you have the time to leave a review, it means the world! And always feel free to shoot me a PM about the story, or if you want to talk about the latest episode, or just say hello! I hope all of you are having a most wonderful October!**


	37. 37) Every Mistake

Over the last two weeks their living room transformed into a miniature law library. The shift was gradual at first, a few books here or there, a notebook every now and then. Now that finals were approaching, Bianca had set for herself a fortress of notes. Books and textbooks were sorted by subject, notebooks full of class notes rested atop the stacks in their respective subjects, her laptop was front and center, and her bar exam prep books were off in their own corner. When she wasn't in class or at home, she was meeting for study groups and reviewing material with her friends.

Miles away in Wisconsin, Reid glanced at his watch, knowing exactly what she would be doing. 4:30 PM: balancing a textbook on one knee, note paper on the other; a cup of strong coffee in hand. He just hoped that by the time he called her that evening, she would be willing to spare an hour or two to talk.

The majority of his day had been devoted to reading and analyzing _Bare Reflections_ , a popular erotic novel he desperately wanted to erase from memory. Did people really read such things? The grammar was disappointing, the characters lacking. In his opinion, the relationship seemed rather abusive. While statistically couples engaging in BDSM had healthy relationships and took care of their partners, something about that particular characterization of it was drawing out the worst in their unsub.

When the sheer ugliness of a case filled his head, he turned to Bianca. Time and time again he could rely on her to listen to him, and replace negativity with brighter things. She was the hope in his day and her words always soothed him. Right now though, she needed space to work and to study. He needed to give her that.

When he was home, he tried to be as helpful as possible. Assistance meant quizzing her when she asked, bringing her blankets when study sessions ran late into the night, and making sure she was eating enough. Eventually he would find an excuse to pull her away from the couch and to their bed, with varying degrees of success. Sleep deprivation wouldn't do her any good, and dreaming beside her was the one bit of selfishness he allowed himself.

As her finals approached, the apartment became more tense. Stress seemed to visibly pile up alongside her textbooks, and she withdrew into a world of legal jargon and case studies. Combined with the ongoing family trouble, it made him nervous to leave her there alone. Too many things were being subtracted from their world, he was more than ready for the scales to tip in favor of something good. Life, that great balancing act.

In spite of the gloomy statistics he compiled, he wanted to believe that the good eventually balanced out the bad. That for every serial killer, there was an agent to stop them, a victim to be saved. For every tyrant, someone willing to bring them to justice. Heavy and light. For every case laced with despair and inherently disheartening, there was a way to push back at the pessimism.

"How's the reading coming, Pretty Boy?" Morgan sat down at the other end of the table, sliding a cup of coffee towards him.

He took it gratefully, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "It's done, but I wish I'd never started."

Morgan laughed. "Yeah, Savannah's sister was reading that when the family came over for the holidays. Me, I don't go near that chick lit stuff with a ten-foot-pole."

"The only books being read in our apartment right now are law-related." It was a rare moment when he caught Bianca sitting on the couch with something else – a short collection of Billy Collins, Mary Oliver. She would ask him to tell her stories, read poems out loud for her after hours of studying, but refused to let herself get invested in a novel.

"Ah, the little lady's gonna be a lawyer soon isn't she?"

"Provided all goes well on the bar exam," Reid said. "DC's pass rate is only at forty-four percent." Though he had total faith she would be a part of that forty-four percent.

Morgan leaned back in the chair. From outside the conference room, voices could be heard. Footsteps and echoes of a life less defined by constant travel and cases. What was it like, to stay in one place for a job? For the depths of utter depravity to be a rare occurrence and not an accepted normalcy?

"I remember those days," Morgan sighed. "Law school was hell. I passed of course, but I never did end up taking the bar. Decided to be a cop instead. It worked out pretty well for me. Tell Bianca I wish her luck."

"I will." Pushing their home lives aside, they got back to work, retracing patterns and victimology, bouncing theories and ideas off of each other. They made a good pair, Morgan's pragmatic approach countering his statistics and hypotheses. While they butted heads from time to time, their friendship was a strong one. Neither had grown up with a brother, and both had lacked a father in their youth; that brother-like relationship they had meant more than either would let on. It was part of what made them so effective. With over ten years spent on the same team, they understood how to work together.

It wasn't long before Hotch came in, telling them to turn in for the night and pick up the next morning, after they'd all had a chance to sleep. Bags and files were collected, and the team drove to the hotel, accompanied by the silence a dead-end case often brought.

Standing beside Derek in the elevator, Reid shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Things with you and Savannah - they're good?"

"They're really good," he answered, smiling at the mere mention of her name.

Reid considered this, mulling over what that small smile meant. "Like she's-the-one good?"

Morgan blanched. "Woah, woah, it's a little early for that, don't you think? I mean, it's only been a year and a half."

They stepped out of the elevator and into the hallway. "In that year and a half, you've gotten pretty close. You live together – in a house that you renovated. You spend every moment you can with her. That's serious, isn't it?"

Morgan pulled his bag up a little higher on his shoulder. "It's more serious than anything else I've been involved in. And yeah, I think that's a good thing."

Fingers wrapped around the key card, Reid hesitated. "I think she's really good for you." It felt awkward to say, but he wanted to bring it up. Morgan was someone important in his life, and Savannah was clearly important to his best friend. Over the years he'd watched Derek accumulate more numbers than he knew what to do with, go out with a string of women – never the same one twice. Then suddenly, Savannah Hayes came along and totally changed the equation.

He introduced the team to her, brought her to several events. He treated her differently, looked at her differently. Spoke of her with a fondness, a near reverence that his voice had never held. His mom used to say that women knew when a guy was ready to settle down. Maybe that had something to do with it. He was finally ready to be in a serious relationship with someone.

A grin spread across Morgan's face. "She's changed me," he admitted. "In the very best of ways. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go call her. G'night, Reid."

"Night." Doors shut. Quiet at last. Often times their budget forced them to share rooms, but every now and then there was a blissful break in routine, and they were able to afford individual rooms. Everyone needed privacy at some point, and they all had their own coping mechanisms while on a case. Sometimes that meant working out, taking a long shower, getting lost in a movie or a book. For Rossi, it might involve a cigar or fine scotch. More often than not, privacy meant having space to phone the people they loved. That was the best way to cope.

JJ had Will, Henry if it wasn't too late. Hotch had Jack and Jessica. Kate had been making periodic calls throughout the day, she and Meg were going through a rough patch after news of her pregnancy broke.

Reid sprawled out across the hotel bed, lazily kicking off his shoes, and grabbed his phone. While it was ringing, he stared up at the beige ceiling of the room. He still remembered what it was like to call her when they lived states apart, and how excited he would feel just to hear her voice, just to have a conversation with her. None of the excitement had vanished with time, but the anxiety that had accompanied those early calls was long gone. It was just easy with her. The most natural thing in the world.

"Hey!" The ringing stopped, and he could practically hear her smile through the phone. "I was just thinking about you! How is the investigation going?"

Even the sound of her voice made was capable of lifting his spirits. "Not great. Have you ever heard of _Bare Reflections_?" he asked.

There was a pause from her end. "That awful book about bondage? Um, is this about the case, or are you-?"

"No no! It's a… case thing." He sighed, shaking his head. Laughter echoed through the phone line. "Never mind. It's just difficult, and that book is making it easier for our unsub. Let me ask you this – how was your day?" He tried to change the subject, wishing he hadn't brought it up to start with.

"It was rather uneventful. Classes in the morning, study group in the evening. It wasn't bad, though it would be better if you were here."

"I couldn't agree more." No matter how much time they had together, he always longed to be with her again. Seeing her face, hearing her voice, he was dependent upon her very existence.

He thought back to Morgan's words, how true they rang. Love had a way of changing people in the best of ways. That's how relationships were supposed to work. Not to harm, but to nurture.

"Hey, B?"

"Mm?"

"You make me a better person, you know. Every day, you make me better. And I'm really thankful for that."

There was a pause from the other end. A soft exhale. He could imagine the small smile on her face, hear it in her voice. "You do the same thing. I am a better person because of you, Spencer."

Funny, how people changed people that way. Lives got tangled up in each other, for better or for worse. When it was bad, it could be a terrible mess, but when it was good – oh, when it was good it was so beautiful.

"What are you doing right now?" he asked.

"I'm finally taking a study break – after a nearly non-stop day."

"Good. You need to rest." There were some evenings she would insist on staying up to keep going over materials. He would stand in the living room and try to convince her to come to bed. More than once, he'd crept out into the hall to find her asleep on the couch, a book still in her hands, and would carry her back to their bed. Never had she been one to do things halfway, but taking care of herself in the process was not one of her strengths.

"I know, I know. And don't worry, I am - I was in the middle of watching a scary movie to unwind."

Reid frowned, crossing his legs on the bed. "You hate scary movies." Many a time he'd convinced her to try watching some horror flick with him, only for her to spend most of the film with her eyes shut and her arms wrapped around him. Not that he minded the latter.

Again her laughter came across the phone line, washing away traces of despair that still clung to him from the day. "Well, it's a really bad horror movie. It's called _Avalanche Sharks._ Some spring breakers accidentally wake a prehistoric 'snow shark' from its slumber on the mountain and it goes on a rampage. I'm almost finished, and all I can really say is that's eighty-two minutes of my life I can never get back."

As she tried to explain the plot, he found himself laughing along with her at the sheer ridiculousness. It was so easy with her, to shift from something serious to something uplifting. Always she was a welcome distraction from a case. A kiss from her was capable of clearing his head, but their conversations helped to lift his spirits.

The day Morgan met Savannah, he began to change. In the year they'd been together, he had seen his best friend grow as a result of that newfound love. It was obvious, to all of the BAU, the shift in attitude. All of the little changes along the way that were shaping Morgan from certified player to happily-monogamous-man. He couldn't help but wonder: was it the same when he met Bianca? Could everyone else see subtle shifts in _his_ behavior? Had _her_ friends noticed a difference?

Some things were best observed from the outside looking in, but nothing quite compared to being on the inside, and sharing in that feeling with someone else.

* * *

It happened entirely by accident. Searching for a little bit of background noise for her studies, she'd surfed through the channels. The news popped up, right in the middle of a broadcast. It was starting that day, and she was aware of that. Still, she hadn't expected to stumble upon it. In the back of her mind, she knew she should look away, but she just couldn't bring herself to. The television screen displayed a quaint courtroom, smaller than the one they'd shown only a moment ago. It cut to woman with curly blonde hair who stood just outside the court building, looking appropriately somber.

 _"On a related note, the copycat murderer, Richard Brown, has been put on trial for the death of Mia Kemper. Today was a chance for the prosecution and defense to present their opening statements. Emotions were high on both sides of the court today, with both the Kemper family and the Brown family in attendance."_

A shot then, of her parents, looking stoic on the bench as they watched the lawyers take the stand.

That was when she'd had enough. Bianca turned off the television, and reached instead for her phone. "Pick up," she pleaded as it rang. "Please, please pick up."

 _"Hi, you've reached Spencer Reid. Please-"_ Frustrated, she tossed the phone aside on the couch. A promise. He had promised her at the beginning of all this that he would be there for her. Maybe it was her fault for believing that nothing would get in the way with that, but she could feel a resentment building at his absence. Of course his work was important, but wasn't this important too?

If she started crying now, she didn't think she would be able to stop. It cut so deeply to see her parents sitting at his trial, when they hadn't bother to show up to her _wedding_ of all things. God, where was Spencer? She needed him. Needed somebody to talk to, somebody who would make everything feel better. Even if just a little bit.

He always did that, he always made things better, but he wasn't here right now. He was somewhere across the District, searching for somebody else's wife. Yesterday morning she'd woken up alone, finding a 3 AM voicemail that explained the situation as best he could. Nearly twenty-four hours later, he still wasn't home. Silence roared in her ears, thoughts moving a mile a minute. He was gone and they were on the news and how much of this was her fault and why were they there? Why was he enough? Why couldn't they see?

 _Breathe, breathe_ , she reminded herself. The room felt too small, the air too stifling. At times like this, only one of two things ever seemed to help. Talking to Spencer wasn't an option. That left running. It took only minutes to swap her dress and cardigan for workout clothes and a pair of sneakers. Watch strapped to her wrist. Laces tied. And then she was off.

Cold was the first thing she felt, a shocking cold when she first stepped out the door. It woke her up, jolted her from her worries. The sting in her throat with every inhale worked the same way. Erasing the mental anguish and replacing it with a physical burn. Feet on pavement, a steady rhythm of left, right, left right. In out. Heartbeats and exhales and inhales and a mind that was blissfully clear. Running required little focus. Only minimal attention to her surroundings and a vague mental map.

She ran past Union Station, down towards the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress, through the National Mall where the cherry blossoms were just beginning to bloom. Everything was colored green and pink, early signs of spring despite the chill that still lingered in the air. The streets of DC were full of all sorts of people. Wandering vagrants, tourists with selfie sticks, parents playing with laughing children. In their midst, a runner who hoped to find answers by getting lost.

Monuments briefly registered in her line of sight. The Air and Space Museum, where they'd had one of their first dates. The White House, not far from the disastrous lunch with her family. What was she supposed to call them now? Estranged family? Blood relatives? Human beings with whom she once resided? There wasn't a word for "former family" because that bond wasn't built to be broken. It was supposed to endure when nothing else did.

Nearly and hour later, with eight miles in, her body felt a little bit lighter. The world seemed a little more steady, more rational. It was getting late, dark clouds were gathering in the sky, and the restlessness had been worked out of her system. With aching legs and shallow breath, she returned home. Bianca jogged up the stairs and into the apartment, expecting to find the same solitude she had run from earlier.

To her surprise, that wasn't the case.

"There you are!" Spencer stood in the middle of the living room, holding her phone in one hand. He handled it the way one might hold a crucial piece of evidence. "I've called you three times, you never answered."

"I went for a run," she said, not bothering to meet his eyes. "I had to clear my head."

"You could've left a note, or something. B, you had me worried sick! I thought something happened to you, I came home as soon as I could, and you were gone."

"Yeah, well, you were gone too." The remark came out much harsher than she'd intended. The air was saturated with tension, and she could see him trying to process the unusual acidity in her tone.

"I was on a _case_ , there was a missing woman! You knew that, I told you I wasn't sure how long we would need."

The rational side of her told her she needed to stand down, before things got out of hand. Pause, explain how she felt, communicate like a normal human being. These circumstances were anything but normal, and everything she'd been trying to hold back for the last few months – the confusion, the betrayal, the hurt – was leaping in her throat, threating to spill out with every word.

"Do you even know what today was?" she asked. The door was slammed shut, her jacket tossed onto the coat rack without a care. Frustration revealed itself in every small action, which she knew he would he would be analyzing with care.

For once, she didn't feel like explaining it. Make it a puzzle. Maybe then he would pay more attention.

"I can't control when we get called away, you know that. Most of my day was been spent translating Russian - forgive me if I've forgotten something."

"You didn't just forget, you broke your promise! You promised me that I wouldn't have to go through this alone. The trial started today, and I was _alone_!"

Realization dawned on his face, a flash of guilt. He hated to see her hurt; worse, he hated to be the reason she felt hurt. "I wasn't thinking about it. I got caught up with work, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to break that promise, but I couldn't leave. They needed my help."

So calm, so sensible. It was driving her crazy, when all she wanted was to rage at the world. All serenity found on her run had been replaced with a spark of anger, and in its grasp the hurt was magnified. It threatened to suffocate her from within unless she found some way to transfer it. To turn the frenzied tempest in her heart on something – or someone – else.

"I needed you!" she shouted. "But you gone! I needed you, and you weren't here!"

"Bianca, you know what my job is like. If I didn't have to travel as much you know I would be there." His eyes were pleading with her to understand, but for once she didn't feel like being rational.

"You were married to your work before you were married to me," she muttered. It was becoming more difficult to bite back the anger she felt, though she knew she was wading into dangerous waters, toeing a line that wasn't supposed to be crossed. For months she'd tried bottling up what she could of the emotional mess she felt in the wake of her brother's arrest. She had allowed sadness to come to the surface, but it was the anger she didn't understand. There was a fury she didn't know what to do with, and suddenly it was coming out in all the wrong ways.

"That's not true. You've never had a problem with me leaving before. Look, I'm sorry about this, but there's no reason to take it out on me!" Spencer's voice rose as well in an attempt to defend himself from her vitriol.

"I've never needed you to be there for something like this before!" At her retort, he reached out to place a hand on her shoulder, but she flinched away, shrugging him off. "Don't touch me! I'm angry, and I'm sure as hell allowed to be angry with you! How many times have you yelled at me? How many times have you pushed me away? You broke my heart out of pure cowardice, and you got mad at me for coming back to help you!" All of these things were buried years in the past, but now she dug them up. She needed to turn back soon, but couldn't seem to stop herself. "You insulted me when you were using again, then when you overdosed, I _still_ didn't leave you! I think I deserve to upset, after every mistake of yours I put up with!"

That was the line, crossed completely. The hurt on his face was plain, as though she'd used her words to stab him straight through the heart. Love was a double-edged sword, knowing that someone held your deepest secrets, and trusting them not to cut you in two with that blade. She'd betrayed that trust, and the moment she stopped speaking she regretted it, watching him recoil away from her. None of this was his fault, she knew that, but she'd lost her temper with him anyways. And because of her, he was hurt. She clamped her hand over her mouth, turned on her heel, and ran out the apartment door.

Bianca hurried down the stairs, towards the lobby door. It was raining outside, but she felt smothered suddenly. The need to get outside outweighed her sensibility, and there was something about the sting of the cold rain that, like running, sharpened her awareness. Not a soul was on the sidewalk when she collapsed in a heap on the bench outside the building, curling up. She'd hurt him, intentionally wounding him with the things she knew would cut the deepest. Not even five months they'd been married, and she was yelling at him in a way she'd only ever done once before. What had changed?

Being married, of course.

They were together all the time, and she'd been so certain that union was exactly what she wanted. Perhaps she'd been kidding herself all this time, perhaps they both had. If her behavior was any indication, she wasn't ready to handle that. Maybe she'd been wrong. After growing up with so many arguments, maybe it was something that was programmed into her brain, written into her DNA. _I'm like my parents after all_ , she thought pathetically. Bianca buried her face in her hands, her sobs barely audible over the sound of the rain around her. It was strangely cathartic, the rain. Cleansing.

Only a few yards away, a figure stood near the awning, watching her intently. It took him a few minutes to finally gather the courage to cross the distance from the building to the bench. "Will you come back inside?" Her head lifted at the sound of his voice, facing him with bleary eyes. "We need to talk, and I'd rather do it out of the rain." All shreds of hope sank in a pit of dread. _We need to talk_ was never a good sign. This was it, the part where this love fell to pieces.

She followed him back up the stairs, the walk feeling more like a death march in soaking shoes. Five years, and she'd never argued with him like that before. Four of the happiest months of her life, and she'd managed to ruin things with a few words. Spencer shut their door, putting the deadbolt back in place with care.

"I know I screwed up," she muttered, not wanting to draw out this conversation any longer than it had to be. "If you want me to give you space for a while, I'll leave."

"Leave? Why? I don't need any space." He was genuinely perplexed by her offer. "It's an argument. That's all."

"But I said some terrible things to you! And I didn't mean them, Spencer, I swear." None of the thing she'd mentioned had anything to do with the trial or with his work. They were events they had both made peace with a long time ago; to bring them up now was a low blow.

Those hazel eyes of his softened, accompanied by the soft tone he adopted in delicate situations. "I know you didn't. But I'm well aware of my shortcomings, and the mistakes I've made, just as I'm aware you've continued to stand by me through them. I love you, and one fight isn't going to make me stop."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry for yelling at you."

"You're forgiven. Always." When he stepped towards her this time, she didn't dodge his touch; instead leaned in to him. With him, she was safe. Secure. "Things have been stressful for both of us lately. I have my cases at work, and you've been preparing for your exams. Not to mention everything that happened in Ohio. It's no wonder you're upset. I should've been there for you this time."

"It's okay," she told him. "You were doing your job. Helping people. It's what you do best."

It wasn't him she was angry at. It was her parents for leaving her, her brother for committing a crime. For creating the nightmares she still had, where Spencer didn't get there in time, where she left him all alone. And it was with herself for directing that anger at the person who made her smile when she needed it most.

Arms wrapped around her still, he leaned down to kiss her forehead. His shirt was drenched with rainwater, the fabric cold against her skin. The only way he could've gotten that wet was if he'd followed her outside. Waited for her. Which was exactly what he'd done, she realized. He wasn't going to give up on her that easily.

"Spencer, I just…" What did she want to say?

She'd always been easy to profile though, and he seemed to understand her perfectly, without words. He knew her fears before she could voice them properly. "We're not going to end up like your parents. Or mine. We've learned to be better, to love better. We're not ruined. Believe me, it's going to take more than one argument to get rid of me. I'm far too attached to you. You have loved me at times when I thought nobody could, and when I thought I didn't deserve it. You are the best thing in me life. I promise, nothing is going to change my mind about you. I'm always going to love you, Bianca. No matter what happens, that promise is constant."

"I love you, too. _So much_. You're not a burden, and you've never been a mistake. I just don't want you to ever think I'm only tolerating you. Loving you has been the greatest thing in my life." The hurt of the earlier argument was starting to fade, a dull bruise of memory. She intended to patch up the wounds, not wanting to leave an imprint of doubt in his mind, and an embrace seemed capable of finding tempers lost, and healing frustrated hearts.

"You know," he said finally, "we should probably get out of these wet clothes. Maybe take a hot shower. Care to join me?" He offered up a hint of a smile.

"For which part?" she asked, though she was already following him down the hallway.

"The part where I remind you that the vows we made aren't going to be broken so easily. There are so many ways to say _I love you_. I'm not quite done yet." That night seemed the perfect night for repeating the sentiment in every possible way; with words, with touch. Mouth to mouth, skin to skin, heart to heart.

* * *

 _"There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind." –CS Lewis_

* * *

 **Author's Note:  
**

 **With college getting crazy busy, I figured I ought to try and get this chapter up while I have the chance!  
This is sort of the culmination of all the heaviness in their lives at the moment, so lighter things are ahead.**

 **Thanks to labrevevita, lmsg, queenofhunter93, and harley001 for following/favoriting this story! I'm so glad to have you with us!**

 **And as always, thank you aPaperheaRt** (I'm so glad! And so sorry to have kept you waiting for so long! They certainly have their share of troubles, but I really wanted to write a supportive, loving relationship), **love-fiction-2016** (thanks again!), **and dianakotori** (Gideon is such a polarizing character. But I think Reid so badly wants to be loved that he's willing to overlook things sometimes. Though wow can he hold a grudge when he wants to) **for leaving reviews last chapter! You all are wonderful, and I appreciate it so so much!**

 **I hope all of you readers are having an amazing week! Have a fantastic Halloween, and - to my fellow students - as finals approach, may the grading curve be ever in your favor!**


	38. 38) Milestones

_"Poems in a way are spells against death. They are milestones, to see where you were then from where you are now." – Richard Eberhart_

* * *

On the stage, several people in scholarly robes spoke into the podium. Out on the lawn, their voices echoed from speakers, soft sentences reverberating above the heads of the crowd. The rows of chairs were sprawling, allowing room for friends and families behind the many students at the front. Reid in the eighteenth row back, all the way over on the far side, a stranger on his right and a tree on his left. It was hot with so many bodies outside in May, but the audience managed to stay quiet as one by one names were called.

In blue clad robes they received their diplomas, shaking hands with the dean. The names flowed in and out, small portions of the alphabet. Mina Aldrige, Robert Dunkley, Jose Hernández, Aiden Jostpile, Jesse Montgomery. One by one he watched half-heartedly, until the _R_ s began. And after Lillian Rector was Bianca Reid. Finally that stage had his full attention as she crossed it, a huge smile on her face as she shook the hand of the dean. For a split second she glanced out his way, not knowing exactly where he was sitting, but trusting that he would see her. He did.

After all the speeches concluded and all the students held a piece of paper, the ceremony was finally finished. Hundreds of graduates flooded the lawn, a sea of blue and purple. Reid stood, scanning the crowd as he made his way towards the front of the rows. It was difficult to differentiate faces in the masses, especially since they wore the same clothing, and her height put him at a disadvantage. However, it was quite the opposite for him, and Bianca was able to spot him as he towered over most of her classmates.

She found him as he stood in a small clearing of people, off to the side slightly, and his eyes lit up when he finally saw her. One hand still holding tight to the degree, her walk turned to a run, sprinting towards him before launching herself into his outstretched arms. Puffy velvet sleeves wrapped around his neck as he lifted her, twirling the two of them in a circle on the grass. He was still holding onto her when she stared down at him.

"Say it," she demanded.

"Say what?" He reached up to adjust the absurdly pompous graduation cap she wore, the black tam all Doctorate students were presented with. They looked even more ridiculous when worn by a seventeen year old. When he'd graduated, there was nothing he wanted more than to get out of the academic regalia and go home, but today he didn't mind lingering a little while.

"You know what," Bianca said.

With a laugh, he surrendered to her wish. "Congratulations, _Doctor Reid_."

The grin on her face widened, her eyes dancing. "Thank you, _Doctor Reid_."

That slip of tongue he'd made in her apartment before the proposal, his hope that he'd never call her Doctor Brown, was finally realized. While they were in the middle of a crowd, they may as well have been the only two people on the planet as her lips found his.

"Hey, Bianca, get over here!" A few of her classmates were beckoning her from across the lawn, and he reluctantly set her back down, watching as she hurried off to go take photos with her friends. They all looked so happy, united in celebration by a common victory, after three years of hard work. This was her moment. Today, he played the role of the supportive husband rather than the graduate, and after seven degrees, he was quite alright with that.

She returned to him, the front of her heavy blue robe now unzipped in the May heat. "I don't care what we do for the rest of the day," she told him, "as long as it involves air-conditioning."

"I couldn't agree more." Three hours outside in close quarters was more than enough. "So, two months and seven days until the bar exam, right?"

Bianca elbowed him. "Shh! I just finished law school, I don't want to think about that. Today is for celebrating only."

That was something he could get behind. So much of their lives had come to revolve around his job, and today was hers and hers alone. Every day he was proud of her, of the person she was – who she'd managed to become, despite her past – and the things she was capable of achieving. Even more so today, he felt a swell of delight in the fact that he was married to her, that this spirited, intelligent person wanted to spend her life with him. She led him across the lawn to meet some of her classmates, holding tight to his hand the whole time.

"This is Spencer," she repeated, to various faces he had yet to memorize. "My husband." Yes, he was hers. She was his. And here, she got to be the hero. The activist, the advocate. For once, he didn't have to be an agent. Not even Dr. Reid. Just Spencer, making small talk with strangers and avoiding handshakes. He was too focused on holding hers anyways.

Eventually they went on their way, traveling through the throng of graduates and friends and families. For months so much had traced back to the issues with her family. How long could a wound sting? It had taken months for him to deal with the loss of people he loved. Every day things got a little easier, even if the pain never truly vanished.

Her smile was back. She didn't wake up crying in the middle of the night. They both avoided news on the case. They were finally moving past it. Bianca was finally healing, and moving towards tomorrows, far away from the yesterdays that she once was bound to.

* * *

"Finally!" she cried, when he walked through the door. It was nearly eleven before he came home. Cases were always unpredictable, but this one had been especially so. Three days in LA, an overnight rush for casework, and then hours spent tracking Meg Callahan down. Not seeing him for so long was agonizing. The smile on Spencer's face told her he felt the same way. "Did you have a chance to eat? I can make you something, if you want."

"That's okay," he said. "Right now I just want rest. It's been a crazy week. I'm just glad to be home."

Home never did feel like home without him there. The house was theirs, after all. "Did something happen at work? For someone who spent all night tracking a network of serial killers, you seem awful happy."

That telltale grin always gave him away. Of the BAU, he had the most trouble hiding what he felt. If he was upset or giddy or angry, it was obvious. "Well, Kate and her baby are okay. But it looks like we're going to be down two profilers soon." Bianca tilted her head, waiting for him to explain. "JJ's pregnant again."

His delight was obvious, and she couldn't help but feel happy as well. JJ and her family were _his_ family, and he already adored Henry. Another LaMontagne for him to dote on would soon be arriving. "That's wonderful! Goodness, these BAU family reunions are going to be quite an event someday. You all just keep growing."

"At this rate, Garcia and Morgan are going to have a lot of catching up to do," he laughed. His arms found their way around her waist, holding her close for the first time in several days. While it felt nice to be near to him again, she couldn't help but wonder if it was hard for him sometimes. Spencer was so kind, he would be obviously thrilled for his coworkers, congratulating them and looking out for them. But did he ever feel a twinge of envy, of regret? He wanted so badly to be a father, and she knew that he would make the best parent.

And yet, she couldn't give him that. She was too scared, too anxious to even consider the possibility. The preparation, the confidence that a parent was supposed to have, she wasn't sure could ever find. More worrisome still were the health risks if they ever tried to have a child. There was a much higher risk of infertility, miscarriage, or premature labor.

If he resented that, he never let her know. Even now, Spencer was simply reveling in the joy he felt for his friends. Completely relaxed, running his hand down her back and asking about her week.

"No grand revelations," she told him. "Mostly just cramming for the bar. So, does this mean you'll be a godfather again?"

He let go of her, moving into the kitchen to put on the kettle. "I hope so! I'll have to start thinking about books to buy for them, magic tricks to teach them... It's a good thing I have nine months to prepare."

She nodded absent-mindedly, sitting down at the table. In her head, images of him as a father came in blurs. Spencer, holding a baby, gently whispering as he rocked them. Playing games with a toddler, reading bedtime stories to them. All the things he would be so wonderful at. Things she was too afraid to contemplate.

Spencer looked back at her. "Bianca? Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing!" she answered, a little too quickly.

Abandoning the kettle to boil on the stovetop, he sat down beside her, grasping her hand in his. "I love you. You know that right?" It was less of a question and more a reassurance. A reminder that she could be honest and vulnerable with him.

"I know," she said. "I love you too."

"And I know that I'm away a lot, and that it isn't easy for you, but I promise that I will always come home to you. Nothing means more to me."

 _But someone else could_ , she thought. If he had a child of his own. Irrational tears stung at the corners of her eyes. Without thinking, he reached up to swipe them away, his fingers tracing down her cheeks with care.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. She shook her head. There weren't words to explain the emotion. It was a nostalgia for something he would never have, a sadness on his behalf. Mixed with guilt that she couldn't give him that future. A mess of confusion and contradicting feelings.

He didn't make her talk. Instead, he made her a cup of tea too, and they curled up with each other on the sofa, where it was warm. Safe. Where love was an absolute certainty. The future, at times, could feel simultaneously miles away, and yet incredibly and overwhelmingly close. Whatever it held, this was her present. Their present. Together, sitting in the quiet solace of the living room and needing no words to know that their feelings were reciprocated.

An unspoken promise, ringing out with every touch. _I will always be here._

 _Always always always._

* * *

"I can't do it," she lamented.

"Yes, you can. You have to do this."

"No, no, I can't! I don't want to know. I can't look." Bianca pushed the laptop across the coffee table, wanting nothing to do with it. The bar examination results were posted, and though she had her information to log in and see her results, she refused to do so.

"B," he sighed. "You've been waiting months for these results. You're worried you failed? If that happened, what would you do?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Cry maybe."

"And after that?"

"I would start studying again. I would sit for the bar in Februrary, and hopefully pass that time." That was the answer he was looking for. Finding the logical side of situations was his strength. It was easier for him to see the bigger picture, when for her this one result felt like the whole world at the moment. Then again, he'd never worried about passing an exam. An eidetic memory took care of that. There had been no reason for him to fear failing.

At the same time, he found it hard to believe she would fail. Maybe she wasn't as smart as him, but she was _smart_. Intelligent enough to remember a myriad of facts and to weave words into the most beautiful of patterns. Not only that, but she was a hard worker. All year she'd been preparing, cramming and studying. The last day of the exam she had arrived home exhausted, but confident that it went well. Months later, she was here and terrified to log in to the student account.

She couldn't put it off forever. If she wouldn't look though…

Reid suggested they go to the Natural History Museum and walk around, to take her mind off of the results. Delighted by the opportunity to focus on something else, she agreed, hurrying off into the bedroom to change into something warmer. He knew he had to act quickly, and he seized the laptop, entering the information he remembered by heart after catching a glimpse of it once.

It was that simple.

Bianca returned, pulling her arm through the sleeve of her cardigan. When she saw him holding the computer, her eyes widened. "What are you doing?"

"Checking your exam results," he said, as though it should have been obvious.

"What? No, don't!" She ran at him, horrified at the thought.

"Too late. I already looked."

She raked her fingers through her hair, pacing. Back and forth, tracing an invisible line on the floor, debating whether to cross the line between known and unknown. In an attempt to discern the answer, she stared at him for a few seconds, trying to read his expression. He wore his very best poker face, revealing nothing.

A ragged inhale, a heartbeat of silence. Finally, "And?"

Reid set down the laptop, walking across the room to where she stood. As he did so she braced herself, preparing for the worst news. Only as he said the words did he finally smile. "You passed!"

"What?" Not trusting his words – he tried not to take offense – she ran back over to the table to look for herself. "Oh my gosh! I passed! I passed the bar!" She ran right back to him, grinning like mad and unable to contain her glee.

He pulled her into his arms, laughing, caught up in her happiness. "I knew you would."

"I can't believe it! I'm a lawyer!" She froze, her rejoicing halted by a realization. "Oh my gosh, I have to call the others! I have to see if Aiden and Tanvi passed. And jobs – I can start looking for a job now! I don't even know where to begin!"

"Why don't we start with celebrating this?" he suggested. "It's not every day you become a lawyer."

"We could go to a bookstore? And then maybe get some coffee?"

"Is that all? I mean, we could go to a museum, or out to dinner if you want."

Bianca shook her head. "I don't need anything big. I just want to be somewhere with you. Besides, I haven't been able to read a real book in so long! There's a new memoir about a girl who defected from North Korea, and now that the bar is over, I finally have the time."

"No need to convince me. I've never been able to say no to books."

They wandered through rows of shelves at Kramerbooks and Afterwords, a bookstore that was home to its own little café. The scent of paper and coffee was heavy around them, making the place feel just like home. Every few minutes, she would grab a book that had caught her attention for some reason or another – usually a title that made her laugh, or one she thought he might love. The burden of the bar exam had been lifted, and she was visibly more relaxed than she'd been in weeks. Lighter. Happier.

Soon Reid was caught up in it too, searching the spines and covers of books for things that would make her smile. He never tired of seeing that smile. Nor did he think there would come a day when it did not want to be the reason for it. It became a contest for them, attempting to find the most outrageous book in the store. In the end, appeared to be a draw, between his _Does God Ever Speak Through Cats?_ and her _The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America._ That was, until he spotted _Knitting a Sweater with Dog Hair_ on a back table, and she surrendered, taking the books they'd decided on up to the counter.

When she finished paying, he stood by the door waiting for her with two cups of coffee, and a paper bag. Sitting at a table outside, he pulled a piece of cheesecake from the bag, along with two forks.

"I know you're not always up for dessert," he said, "but I also know that you genuinely like cheesecake. And that this is something you worked really hard for, so we're going to celebrate it." He lifted his coffee cup for a toast. "To DC's newest human rights lawyer."

"And to the bar finally being over," Bianca replied, tapping her cup against his. "Thanks for putting up with all of the craziness the last few months."

"It wasn't that bad, I promise." After all, she'd always accepted the unpredictability of his job. Long hours, constant travel, the ever-present dangers it presented. That was long-term. Standing by her for something that seemed so small – and that meant so much – was nothing.

Chapters were ending. And chapters were beginning. Such was the story of life. Despite all the stories he'd read, all of the books he'd held in his hands through the years, theirs was the one he came back to, time after time.

* * *

" _Hi, it's me. I just wanted to let you know that the case is taking a little longer than expected, so I won't be home tonight. I'm sorry, I know we haven't been able to spend much time together this week, but I should be back soon. I miss you. And I love you. Bye."_ Bianca pressed pause, sighing and dropping the phone back into her bag. He must've called when she was still on the metro, and it was too noisy to hear it ringing.

Spencer being away wasn't uncommon, but she'd been hoping he would be home tonight all of nights. Although, he didn't mention _that_ in his message. Had he really forgotten? No, that wasn't possible. He never forgot things, but it was possible the stress of a case had him distracted. Celebrating would have to wait until later.

The sun sank further below the DC skyline as she made her way home. At work she had been looking forward to coming back and finding him there, but it was disappointing to know it would be as empty as when she left earlier that morning. Her keys jingled in the lock, granting her entry to the dim apartment. The last of the remaining daylight was filtering in through the stained glass and the curtains, just enough that she could hang up her coat on the back of the door before turning on the lights. She stopped suddenly, her fingers still holding the fabric. Had she just heard that?

It seemed impossible, but she held her breath, waiting, panicking. A few seconds later, she heard it again – the unmistakable creaking of the apartment floorboard, closer than it had been a moment ago. She was too afraid to turn around, and so she tried to keep calm, reviewing everything Spencer had ever taught her about self-defense. _Evaluate the threat at hand, make an escape if possible, fight back. Bite their hand, punch the trachea to crush the windpipe, scream for help._ Nothing could happen to her, not before she could see him again.

Two hands found her waist, and she screamed, squeezing her eyes shut and spinning around, thrusting a punch upwards as she did so. With as much force as she could throw behind it, her fist met flesh and bone; the offending hands released their grip. " _Ow_!"

She froze, one hand still curled in a fist. That voice was familiar. Again from the shadows it came. "Dammit, Bianca. That _hurt_!"

"Spencer?" There was a grunt of affirmation and she flicked the light switch, the lamps revealing him to her. His face was contorted in pain, one hand rubbing his cheek. "Oh my God, Spencer I'm so sorry!"

Grimacing, he dropped his hand away from the side of his face, where a sizeable bruise was blooming across his jaw. Guilt-stricken, she covered her mouth, aghast at what she'd done. "How bad is it?" he asked.

"You know how a peach looks after it's been dropped?"

"That bad, huh?"

The pale skin of his cheek was tinged with red in the exact shape of her knuckles, already swelling. "God, Spencer, I'm sorry! I thought someone had broken in, and I panicked. You said you were on a case so…"

"Well, I was trying to surprise you." That much was abruptly clear now. He was trying to do something romantic, and she'd punched him in the face instead. "Though I suppose I should relieved you can take care of yourself. That's a pretty good uppercut. But did you really think I would miss our first anniversary?"

"I knew if it was work, you wouldn't have much of a choice." Now that he mentioned it, his original plan for proposing to her had been quite similar. Lie about being stuck on a case, and then turn up at the airport. "I'm really sorry," she said again.

"It's okay," he replied. "I'm not upset or anything, but I'm sure Morgan's going to have a field day teasing me tomorrow about this." Bianca wrapped him in an embrace, trying to touch him with far more care this time. It _had_ been a surprise, just not in the way he was anticipating. Either way she was delighted to see him, and relieved when he held her just as tight.

Pressed close to his chest, it was easy to get lost in the scent of his shirt, but there was something else too. Something almost… smoky. Pulling away, Bianca glanced towards the kitchen. "Spencer, is something burning?"

His eyes went wide with alarm, and he sprinted towards the stove, nearly tripping on the rug. When he opened the door of the oven whirls of smoke came pouring out, setting off the smoke detector overhead. She ran over to assist in time to see him pull a blackened dish out and drop it unceremoniously in the sink. Bianca opened the nearest window in the hopes of allowing the smoke to escape into the night, while Spencer fiddled with the smoke alarm until its frantic beeping was finally silenced.

"It was supposed to be lasagna," he muttered in defeat. "I guess I should've set a timer."

"Are there any other surprises I should be aware of tonight?" It was a joke – mostly. For Spencer to try and put all of this together had to have taken a fair amount of planning, and she was flattered that he wanted to try and cook for her. Obviously there was some learning still to be done on that front.

They opted to go out for dinner instead, walking a few blocks to a little Chinese restaurant. It was a small comfort, to know that some things remained the same over the years. He still couldn't figure out how to use chopsticks. She still took every opportunity to order tea. And still they were in love.

People would come and go in their lives, but that would remain.

"I've got two more job interviews this week," she told him. "I can't remember the last time I was this nervous for an interview. It's what I've wanted for so long."

"Not even when you were applying to jobs in DC for the first time?" he asked.

Bianca laughed. "That was different. I was going to keep working until I found a way to get here. I wanted to be near you. And I'm not going to give up on this either – there's just fewer options, that's all."

From across the table he looked at her with such love. "Well, I have complete faith in you. I always will."

After dinner, they walked through the National Mall in the cold October air. Over the city, a few lone stars had spilled into the ink-coated sky, and Spencer pulled her down onto the grass with him, where they lay looking up at the atmosphere. The Capitol building was lit up, museums and streetlamps all around them. The moon hung low in the sky, and when he reached for her hand, she couldn't help but wonder at how the simplest of things could shift all her senses, making a the night seem altogether magical.

Perhaps it was magic, what they had. Truly, in this world, love was the closest thing she had ever found to magic. It broke boundaries and spells, brought bright the darkness, transformed the world into something beautiful. All those years in the past of loneliness and misunderstandings had overwhelmed her, and now she wished she could reach back through the past to tell her younger self that it was going to work out. That someday she was going to find a career that fit her passions, and have friends that cared for her from across the ocean, and meet a man who would lay with her under the stars and help to wash away her fears.

And Spencer. His childhood had been far from perfect, and for so long all he'd wanted was someone to accept him and understand him. She squeezed his hand, inching just a little closer to him. On instinct he drew her into his arms, pressing his lips to her forehead, as though to say, _I understand._

Eventually they stood up and began the journey back to their apartment, the air growing too chilly to linger any longer. Just outside their door, he stopped, holding up a hand.

"One more thing," said Spencer. He opened the palms of his hands, revealing that he held nothing, while she waited, skeptical of any other surprise he might attempt. Then, he reached into the sleeve of his coat, and pulled out a small bouquet of purple flowers. "Ta-da!"

With a little flourish, he placed them in her hands. One last surprise, the only one he'd managed to pull off that night without any trouble. He never was one to give up.

"Lilacs. These are your favorite," she said.

"For my favorite person. Happy anniversary."

Once inside, under the brighter lights of their living room, she took another look at his face. The bruise she'd left was only becoming more obvious. "I still feel bad about punching you," she said. "Are you sure you don't want ice or anything?"

Spencer turned to her, smiling. "Now that you mention it, there is something that would make me feel better..." He trailed off, raising his eyebrows.

The implication was much smoother than his previous plans for the evening, and her answer was an enthusiastic kiss. "I thought you would never ask."

Soft footsteps trailed down the hall as she followed him to their bedroom. His lips found hers, she traced a path down his chest. In a year, so much had changed. He pulled her closer, she moved her mouth lower on his neck. They were so much more comfortable with each other, in this physical sense. Movements made slowly were done so not out of fear, but out of a desire to savor the moment, making the longing last longer.

Deft fingers made easy work of their clothing, accumulating on the floor in a haphazard pile, as the room seemed to shrink around them. The world was erased bit by bit, until nothing remained but the feeling of his lips and her hands and the heat of their bodies.

The feelings of inadequacy and apprehension they'd harbored still resided in the back of their minds, but they had found a rather effective way to silence the noise of those doubts. Physical proof. Tangible emotion, unmistakable when he kissed her inner thigh, indisputable when she wrapped herself around him, eliminating any remaining space between them.

Never had he been religious, but her name rolled from his lips like a prayer, and she couldn't help but echo his own back to him.

That first night, three-hundred and sixty-four days ago, had been so different. Wonderful still, but experience lent a certain beauty to things, undeniably so. Before the wedding, they had been close, utterly in love, but in the year since they had begun to share a last name, so much had changed, bringing them even closer. In infinite ways they continued to grow more comfortable with each other, letting all their vulnerabilities exist in the open, always to be met with acceptance. They held each other without regard to possible mistakes, and learned that there were certain aspects of growth that could only be done when two people lived permanently inhabited the same apartment.

It was different. It was beautiful. And she cherished it.

In bed they lay, their heartbeats slowing in synchronization, a steady symmetry of love. Bianca pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, the same place she had previously applied her fist.

"Feeling any better?" she asked.

"Much better," he replied.

* * *

"What's complicated?" Reid asked, raising his head. Something about paradise and trouble and the sun.

"Relationships," Rossi bemoaned.

"You're not the only one, Tara," Morgan assured her.

Dave seized this opportunity with a smirk, asking, "So Morgan, when are you and Savannah walking down the aisle?"

Morgan backpedaled, wanting to steer clear of that conversation for now. They'd been dating for almost three years, they lived together, and as far as the team could tell, the two were perfectly content in their unwedded bliss.

"When Derek Morgan says _I do_ , it'll be a national day of mourning for single women everywhere," Reid laughed. After all this time, it was difficult to imagine his friend finally tying the knot. Only a few years ago he seemed unable to go out with the same girl more than once. A perpetual bachelor, able to do as pleased with whomever he pleased.

Rossi was now telling the story of an ill-fated trip to Vegas, and a ceremony conducted by Elvis. "Hey, what about you, Pretty Boy?" Morgan asked. "You and your lady have made it this far."

Tara looked up at him, surprised. "You're dating someone?" She'd been with them only a few weeks, and there were still things they had yet to learn about each other; conversations on the plane and over dinner and in the bullpen that were yet to be had.

He glanced down, feeling sheepish. "Married, actually," he admitted.

"You never said anything about that!" she replied, surprised by this new discovery. The other agents seemed amused at the sight. With the departure of both Blake and Callahan, JJ and the socially awkward Doctor were now the only married members on the team.

"You never asked." As much as possible he preferred to keep his private life just that – private. Bianca was a part of the BAU family, she was friends with his coworkers and joined them on occasion. But like Morgan with Savannah, or Hotch with Beth, he rarely brought his wife up in conversation without reason. She was his lantern in the dark, a bit of happiness that this job couldn't steal from him, and at times he was unwilling to share her in the midst of the darkness his work demanded.

For fear of losing it on the job, he often kept his wedding band tucked away in a pocket of his messenger bag. There were killers to catch, bodies to be examined, gloves to be put on and off. Always he carried it with him, but he didn't want to risk that ring vanishing in some strange part of the country.

"Alright, spill it kid. What's the secret to making it work?" Morgan raised his eyebrows, a sort of challenge issued in order to mask his genuine curiosity.

The men of the Bureau seemed to have a worse track record than their female counterparts when it came to romantic relationships. For Reid, it seemed obvious. "We're honest with each other," he said. "Bianca knows that the BAU is… my family. She gets it. The only other thing in the world that's as important to me as this job is her, and I show her that every opportunity I get. When I come home, we make a point of having breakfast together, or just sitting and catching up on what we've both missed. I trust her with things that happened on a case. I leave her notes around the apartment, and look for books or postcards she might like when we're sitting at an airport. It's just all the little things that let her know I love her, that start to matter so much."

Reid paused, licking his lips, his hand coming to rest on his messenger bag. Within the folds of leather, there was a small golden ring, a tangible sign of an endless promise. "I know that I don't ever want to lose her. My life is better because she's in it. I guess it's hard to explain exactly, but I know that what we have, I want to keep for as long as I can."

They had their share of troubles and disagreements. He could drive her crazy with his work schedule and his tendency towards passive-aggressiveness. She could be terribly stubborn when she wanted to be. When feelings were hurt though, they made a point of working through it together. Always together. Mugs in hand, talking over all the things they felt, putting into words things they weren't sure they could explain, until tension melted into tenderness.

"Well aren't you the romantic," Rossi deadpanned. "Sounds like the poet is rubbing off on you."

He shrugged. Influence didn't seem a strong enough word. Without her, he would be a different person. She had changed him in the very best of ways.

"How long ago have you been married?" asked Tara.

"One year, thirteen days, and… fifty-two minutes. We dated for about three years before that." Give or take two years lost in the middle.

"Did you ever have doubts?" She was trying to sound casual, but he could read the tension in her voice, the clear overcompensation.

There had been doubts, but none of the typical variety. All of them had arisen from unusual circumstances, from loss and grief and addiction. So he said, "Not really. I mean, I worried that I wouldn't be enough for her, or that I would let her down. I was afraid she wouldn't feel the same way. But I knew that she was the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. That hasn't changed."

Tara nodded, twisting the ring on her finger, having dove too deep into her thoughts to surface with a response. Reid tried to not analyze it too much. The moratorium on intra-team profiling existed for a reason, however hard it was to shut down that instinct. Still, he saw the signs. The reluctance to mention Doug, the way she fiddled with the ring, the distant expression she wore. It wasn't the face of someone excited to marry the person they loved. Rather, she was the picture of hesitance, trying to convince herself that this uncertain thing would work out.

All too often in their field, it didn't. The people they loved got tired and got hurt and left one way or another. Picking up his book again, he couldn't help but think that somehow he'd become one of the lucky ones. At the end of the day, he had someone to go home to, someone who would be waiting up with open arms and a smile. A love that made it all worthwhile. Some people lived a hundred years and never found that.

With one last glance at Tara, he hoped that she eventually would. Out in that great big world, there had to be someone who could make her happy, capable of transforming her apprehension into joy.

Reid paused, a finger on the page to mark his place, to pull his phone out and send a text.

 _We'll be landing in twenty minutes. I love you. I can't wait to see you._

Seconds later came a reply: _I'll be waiting. All my love, my love._

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **It's another long one, friends. Thanks for sticking with me and continuing to read this story! I know I say it a lot, but I'm really so very grateful to each and every one of you!**

 **Thank you to Hamato Sakura, Gerardfan, AlvenAlvis, ShadowGirl017, HeatherFeather98, hellostarfish, BlackHawk98, Remmy18, constantlyklutzy, faultyfairytale, TheOriginals-NewOrleans, and maxthespaceman for following/favoriting this story!**

 **And as always, thank you to dianakotori** (thank you so so much! I'm really glad it came across that way), **aPaperheaRt** (aw, I'm so glad! Thank you for continuing to read and review!), **Love-Fiction-2016** (thanks!), **Just another reader** (oh wow, thank you! I'm so sorry that you've had your heart broken in such a way, and I hope that with time, things will get easier. There are people you haven't even met yet who are out there, waiting to understand you and stand by you and love you. And no need to apologize for a long review - we writers _live_ for long reviews! Thanks for taking the time to read this story and to leave feedback!), **and** **DeliciousAudrey** (ah yes, that first fight! And haha, yes, real life has a way of doing that, doesn't it? In my mind, she's read parts of it - in the way that so many people have read parts of _Fifty Shades of Grey_ \- but I don't know if she'd be able to convince herself to both purchase and read the thing. I'll have to think about doing a little companion piece or something eventually!) **for leaving such kind and wonderful reviews! Your feedback means so much to me and I really appreciate that you all take the time do so.**

 **Have a wonderful week, and I'll see you next chapter!**

 **Side note: The annual Criminal Minds Profiler's Choice Awards are happening! You can nominate your favorite stories and authors in various categories through December 31, 2016. There's even a category for best reviewer! So give a little love to all your favorite folks in the fandom by heading over to the Profiler's Choice 2016 forum. All entries with ten (10) or more categories filled out are eligible to win an Amazon gift card!**


	39. 39) To Go Alone

She got a job at Darcy and Alam, one of the law firms at the top of her list. Right away, things began to get busy, and soon she was balancing work for cases as much as he was. On Saturday mornings, they sprawled out across the living room to get through their respective assignments, so they could enjoy the majority of their weekend together. He would set up camp on the couch, case folders set out on the coffee table, while she sat in one of the nearby armchairs with her laptop. Spencer always finished first, flying through stacks of paperwork with ease, while she tried to play catch-up.

That particular Saturday, the workload felt endless. For once he seemed to have more to do than she did, and Bianca hoped that finally she wouldn't be working hours after he was done, while he lounged around with a pile of books, waiting for her. With most of her docket reports finished, she glanced up to see how her husband was faring across the room.

Spencer had his eyes narrowed in concentration, flipping between a few pages of a file, biting his lip. He always made faces when he was thinking, but what he did with his mouth was terribly distracting. Color bloomed in her cheeks, watching him as he did so, his tongue wetting the corner of his lips from time to time. She forced herself to tear her eyes away and get back to work, but it was nearly impossible now to focus on the paragraphs in front of her without noticing him in her peripheral vision. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing up the curls that had grown out over the last few months, the action almost absent-minded.

No, there would be time to pay attention to him later, she reminded herself. Crossing her legs in the chair, she tried to return her focus to the trafficking articles and gender discrimination trials that demanded her time. Without fail, a few minutes would pass, the words would seem far less interesting, and she would catch Spencer at it again. His tongue flicking out, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. Why did he have to do those things with his mouth? His mouth, his hands, his hair, his eyes, his voice, _him_. Everything about him was utterly distracting, and she couldn't bear it much longer.

He didn't even _realize_ he was doing it, which only made it worse. When he worked he seemed to shut everything else out, unaware of even his own actions. Frustration burned in her, annoyed at the fact that he could steal so much of her focus and not even notice it. That wasn't fair. In retribution, she considered undoing some of the buttons on her cardigan, just to see what would happen. Better still, she could disappear to the closet and return wearing just only one of his shirts – one of the purple shirts, _definitely_ one of the purple shirts - and a pair of high socks. _That_ would get his attention. She could do that and sit in the armchair, biting her own lip and muttering French poetry under her breath until he was just as distracted.

Suddenly, he looked up from the paperwork only to see her staring at him, her face red. His eyebrows shot up. "Is something wrong?"

Bianca glanced down, flushing. "Of course not. Nothing at all."

"I know when you're lying. What's bothering you?"

 _You_ , she thought bitterly. _You and your stupidly distracting face._ Embarrassed, she didn't respond.

"Come on, something's wrong. You've been staring at me for the last five minutes." So he _had_ noticed.

Caught in the act, she knew there was no talking her way out of this one, not to a profiler. "You were doing that thing again," she mumbled.

"What thing?" he asked innocently.

She shot him a glare. "You know. You know exactly what you do. And it's distracting."

Spencer shut the file folder in front of him. "This is… distracting?" Slowly he licked his lips, never once looking away from her eyes. She wanted to cross the room and kiss the smirk off his face.

"Very much so," she said, trying to stay annoyed despite the look he was giving her now. "It's not fair."

"Not fair?" He was taken aback. "You don't think you have the same effect on me? Bianca, you know that when you're reading, you have this adorable smile on your face most of the time? And when you're concentrating really hard, you stick your tongue out. When you're worried about something, you have a habit of fingering your collarbone, and of course, when you're embarrassed about something, your whole face turns pink. As it has right now, for example." Abandoning the paperwork entirely, he left the couch to close her laptop screen, looming over her.

"And that's just the beginning. Don't even get me started on your eyes, or the freckles on your cheeks, or the way you talk. The list is endless."

"Likewise," she said softly, pushing the laptop away to stand on top of the chair. From that vantage point she was taller than him, and able to tangle her fingers through his hair with ease.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about," he murmured, his hands trailing down her back. If he was distracting from across the room, he was even more so when in front of her, when touching her. Unable to resist, to she pressed her lips to his forehead. Seconds later his mouth was on hers, those disorienting lips of his now hers to bite gently. He kissed her deeply, the world and its demands fading away until the sound of several emails – the alert tone she used for her boss – rang out. Groaning, she pulled away to see what the concern was. The deadline had changed, and the dockets were now needed by this afternoon.

"Maybe I should just go to the library," she sighed.

"I could go with you," he volunteered. Tempting as it was, she would never get those reports done if he was there, luring her away to make out in the stacks.

Bianca shook her head, already searching for her backpack. "We both need to get work done, and clearly that's not going to happen today if we're near each other. But I can probably finish up in an hour or so. If you'd like, I'll pick up coffee on my home, and then you're free to distract me all you'd like."

"Is that a promise?"

* * *

Time could be funny in dreams. It always seemed to make perfect sense though, the subconscious mind rarely questioning the way seconds moved too slow or too fast. They were always vibrant though, making it difficult at times to discern between the real and the imagined. In sleep, his apartment looked as it always did, the floorboards creaking in all the usual places, the bedroom the way he'd left it. Except, when he left, the room was empty. Now, there was someone there, sound asleep in the bed. As she should be, he realized. It was late. He was late. Trying not to wake her, he crawled under the covers, wrapping one arm around her. He missed her, and every night in an empty hotel bed was painfully lonesome. And yet, she was there, he could pull her close and –

"Reid. Earth to Reid. Wake up, kid." He jolted up to see Morgan smirking at him from across the aisle of the jet. "Getting a little lonely?"

The question seemed odd, until he looked down and realized he'd been embracing his satchel in his sleep. He pushed the bag away, thoroughly embarrassed, and tried to sit up with some shred of dignity. "No," he huffed. Morgan looked unconvinced. "Are we almost back?"

"Already landed," his friend replied. And then, clapping him on the shoulder, "Go get 'em, lover boy." Reid collected his paperwork in record time to take the metro back home. As much as he wanted to deny it, he'd been terribly lonely in Michigan. It was hard to say exactly what it was, but lately it seemed to be harder and harder to spend time away from home. With time, he thought it would have gotten easier; instead the inverse was true. It was like how the more he drank coffee, the harder it was to go a day without it. This particular case only made it worse. There was a couple involved, a baby in danger, a street artist who was a favorite of his and Bianca's – a mutual appreciation of Morpheus' art and activism alike.

Coming home was the strangest sense of déjà vu, walking through the apartment just as he'd done in his dream on the plane. This was the waking world, wasn't it? It was strikingly similar. Here too, the lights were off and he found Bianca asleep. Reid changed as quietly as he could before slipping into bed beside her.

"Spencer?" Evidently, he stood corrected. She rolled over to face him, wide awake. "Welcome home."

"Thanks," he said, but the exhaustion in his voice was obvious. It was enough to cause her to sit up, frowning.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?" The case, it was always a case. "Tell me about it then," she implored.

He hardly knew where to begin, and so he tried to explain from the start. There was the installation in Detroit, the one with the car and the blanket. Then the man caught in the mousetrap, and the baby stolen its crib. It was a case full of confusing twists, morbid mobiles, secret identities, and an abundance of street art. She was heartbroken to know that Morpheus was dead, but that was nothing compared to her reaction when he explained just how she died. Her hand grabbed his instantly, a grounding touch to keep him from getting lost in his thoughts. The similarity of the murder-suicide hadn't been lost on him either, right down to the way the couple was posed when they fell. It was all he'd been able to do at the time not to succumb to a wave of sickness at the sight.

"And in that instant, all I could see was Maeve and Diane."

"Oh, Spencer." Her words were gentle, spoken to provide comfort to him, laying over him the way she wrapped her arms around his neck. As though she could cover him up and protect him from the harshest of memories that tried to break through the walls his mind had carefully constructed. Every battle she fought on his behalf was a defensive one. She kept him safe even when the dangers he faced were within him.

"It's just been a hard month," he sighed. "I mean, between that and the addicts."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Addicts? What are you talking about?"

He'd neglected to mention that detail before, he realized. "They were the unsubs few weeks ago, the outlaws from New Mexico. They were addicted to methamphetamine. One was even caught on the security footage from a pharmacy. They preferred to shoot up." That too was hard watch, the all too familiar ritual of preparing and injecting drugs intravenously.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Cravings?" A short nod from him, too ashamed to respond verbally. Bianca's hand meandered up his arm, coming to rest in the crook of his right elbow. The same place a faded constellation of scarred track marks resided, her fingers curling around the spot that seemed to burn at times like this. "Have you thought about going to a meeting?"

"I went to one last week. It helped. But being with you, that helps too. More than you know."

"Alright, well then tell me something good that's happened at work lately."

Reid thought back over their recent cases, and the gas station appeared in his mind. "On that same case in New Mexico, there were a father and son in the gas station. They spoke Spanish, and I know enough to get by, so Hotch had me interview them. The boy was young, only five years old. But he told me everything he could remember, and I even got a high-five from him. Considering what had happened, he seemed okay. It's really nice to be able to work with kids, and even better when they haven't been hurt by a crime. He was a sweet kind. Reminded me of Henry a little." He couldn't help but smile at that memory, one of the few good things to happen on a case that month.

Bianca looked down suddenly, the expression on her face akin to embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Sorry?" The apology didn't make any sense. "For what?"

"It's not enough for you is it? Just being a godfather. Spencer, I can see it whenever you talk about children you meet, or about Henry or Michael or Jack. And you're so _great_ with them. You would be such a good dad. But I can't give you that. I'm sorry."

Despair, that's what he heard in her voice. Regret, guilt. It was written just as plainly on her features, as though the idea of causing him pain was enough to physically pain _her_. She didn't need to feel that way, not at all. "Do you have any idea how much you've done for me? How much you've given up for me? I don't blame you for how you feel, and frankly after getting to know your family, I get why you would be apprehensive. You've already given me more than you can imagine."

"But this is something that matters to you," she whimpered.

He brushed her bangs from her face, letting his hand rest on her cheek. "And so are you, Bianca. I would never ask you to do something you're not comfortable with. You don't owe me anything. That's not how love works. Do I want kids? Yeah. Absolutely. But I want to be with you more. I chose _you_. Every day, I do, and I've never once regretted that decision. Okay?" Until Henry's birth, he'd never even considered the possibility, but once he had the dream had taken root, a far-off hope he nurtured. It wasn't enough though, to make that dream real at the expense of her sanity or well-being. She was already there, tangible and true, wanting so badly to make him happy. At the same time, he wanted so badly to protect her.

"I just don't want you to feel like you've missed out on something because of me."

"I don't. I have a job that I love, friends that are like family to me, and I'm married to the most amazing person I know. I get to come home to you, and I get to spend the rest of my life with you. That's more than enough for me." Reid pulled her down beside him on the pillows. "I think we could both use some sleep. It's late. Everything is going to be alright – I'll go to a meeting again this week, and I'll talk to Hotch. And as for you, I still love you more than anything." A long time ago he'd decided that he wanted to be with her, no matter what that meant.

They were still young. There was always time to change their mind. To adopt or foster. But if none of those options were in the cards, he would be content simply to love her and be loved by her. That was more than he'd ever imagined he would have. A wife. A happy marriage. Someone to come home to on the worst days.

"I love you too," she whispered. Bianca settled under the covers, and he wrapped one arm around her, savoring the warmth of sharing a bed with her once more, the comfort of her presence and the steadfast certainty of her love. By the light of the moon he held her more tightly than he had his messenger bag on the plane ride home, finding it much easier to fall asleep with her in his arms instead.

* * *

At Morgan's insistence, the BAU family gathered at his house for a football game. The Washington Redskins against the Carolina Panthers. Not all of them were avid sports fans, but James Barfield, a fellow victim of Carl Buford's who had looked up to Derek, was finally starting for the NFL. As one of Carolina's running backs, he'd been doing immensely well, and Morgan couldn't have been more proud.

"It's still early in the season, but there's talk they could even make it to the Super Bowl this year!" he boasted.

"Talk all you want Derek, there's no way the Panthers are beating the Skins," Savannah said.

"Ooh, a house divided," laughed Garcia. "It's a good thing JJ isn't here, or you'd be outnumbered." JJ was home with Will and her boys, enjoying what little time she had left on maternity leave before returning to the Bureau. Several times she and Spencer had gone to visit them. Michael was too sweet not to adore, and Henry was grateful to have extra people around the house for a few hours. Most of his parents' attention was directed towards the new baby, but the Reids would take him out to play at the park or go to a museum, allowing him to feel like the center of attention for a change.

While Penelope and Savannah were taking bets on the results of the game, Bianca slipped into the kitchen in search of water. Standing in the center of the room, staring at the cabinets was a woman with short, choppy black hair.

"Looking for wine glasses?" Bianca suggested.

The woman turned around, her eyes lighting up. "I absolutely am. You wouldn't happen to know where they are, would you?"

"The one on the far left, above the sink."

"Thank you." She took a glass from the cabinet, pouring herself red wine. The woman wasn't any familiar face, and as far as Bianca knew, this was exclusively a BAU family gathering. However, Spencer had told her that they'd recently taken on a new member to fill Kate Callahan's position.

"You must be Dr. Lewis," she guessed, offering a hand.

"Oh, please, call me Tara." She had a strong grip and a dazzling smile.

"It's very nice to meet you. I'm Bianca."

"Oh, you're Reid's wife, right?" She nodded. Tara's immediate recognition took her by surprise, though she took a little pride in being connected to him. "You're the one he waited five-hundred years to meet."

"What?"

Tara laughed. "It's something he said on the jet. A proverb, about how the universe has conspired for five-hundred years to bring you and your soulmate together. We'd been talking about _Synchronicity._ It was really lovely, but I didn't know at the time that he was married. Now I see he must've been referring to you."

A blush crept across her cheeks. "That's one of his favorites," she said. How true it rang for the two of them. They had met seemingly against all odds, and when she thought about just how many things had to happen at the perfect time to bring them together – again and again – it felt nothing short of a miracle. The stars aligned, and they fell into what was either the happiest of accidents or the most perfect of plans. "He's not usually one for theories of destiny, but there's something about Jung he really loves."

"Hey, just be glad he's explaining your relationship with Jung and not with Freud."

"I believe me, I am!" she laughed. "Happily, our marriage was _not_ the byproduct of penis envy and an Oedipus complex. Just because Freud wanted to sleep with his mother, doesn't mean everyone does."

"You can say that again. I don't know, maybe we should cut the guy some slack. It's hard to come up with solid theories when you're busy using – I mean, _researching_ – cocaine. You know he even used to give cocaine to friends and family as a gift?"

"Hey, there you are." A familiar voice broke through their laughter, and she turned see Spencer as his wound his arm around her waist. "I see you've met Tara."

"Indeed I have. Hotch made the right choice – she's smart, funny, _and_ a psychologist! I like her already!" With another grin directed towards Tara, she added, "Besides, we short hair sisters have stick together."

"Well, Morgan says the game is about to begin. Ready to go pretend we know something about sports?" he asked.

Bianca stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Always ready. All we have to do is cheer when the blue team scores." It was an easy enough thing to do. Most of the evening was spent simply laughing and talking between plays – football was an incredibly slow sport. At one point, Morgan talked Spencer into telling them about the time Gideon presented him with Redskins tickets for his birthday, and suggested he take JJ along with him. At the time, he'd harbored a bit of crush on her. The date however, ended up being incredibly awkward. Despite having read up on Redskins stats, he still didn't understand the game. JJ was far more interested in the plays than in him, and by the end of the night, they'd both decided their relationship was far more akin to that of siblings than romantic partners.

"We never spoke of it again," he said, shaking his head. "To be honest, I don't think either of us thinks about-"

He was cut off as Morgan, Tara, and Garcia. jumped up, cheering; Savannah groaned, and Rossi simply knocked back another scotch. Bianca rested her head on Spencer's shoulder, the two of them utterly lost by the gameplay, but happy nonetheless. Neither had much interest in football, but it was highly unlikely the others would derive excitement from a comic-con or book release the way they did. – save for Penelope. It wasn't important though, to be greatly invested in every activity. To be surrounded by friends, participating in something together, basking in a shared experience, that was all that mattered. It was enough to sit and watch two sports teams throw a ball around a field, and watch the reactions it brought out in their friends.

In that little ragtag family, bound together by mutual love and loss. Those who witnessed unspeakable horrors, and those who helped to get them through it. FBI agents kept people safe, but their friends and families were the ones who protected them from demons and doubt and nightmares.

That they were all still here – still as whole as they could be – that was a miracle.

Every person in that room had gone through something heartbreaking. Sometimes she wished she could travel with Spencer, to be there at the end of the day and hold him, talk him through anything that had left him rattled. Instead, she remained just a phone call away. Instead, she had moments like this. She held him just a little closer, wanting to cherish it, this time when he was safe and laughing. The BAU deserved more days like this, when the greatest tragedy was that the Redskins suffered a terrible defeat, 44 to 16.

Morgan was ecstatic, especially considering James Barfield had caught the final pass to score Carolina's last touchdown. "That's my man! That's my man!" he shouted, looking at the screen with all the pride and disbelief of an older brother realizing his kid sibling was all grown up. It was a similar look she caught him give Spencer from time to time. Happiness derived from the happiness of another.

What a beautiful feeling that was.

Spencer said, "If you have work to finish, we can head out now."

Across the room, Tara was laughing at something Penelope had just said to Hotch, and Morgan was occupied in teasing Savannah about the outcome of the game. Rossi re-entered the room with two glasses of celebratory scotch. She took in the way they looked at each other, the comfort and ease that they exuded. Such a drastic contrast to their usual posture and attitudes.

It was like seeing Spencer sleep. He would come home, so tense and anxious after a case. After particularly rough days, he seemed to be entirely held together by a mixture of stress and determination. At night though, when he finally lay sleeping beside her, his body found permission to relax and he rarely looked quite so peaceful as he did in the quiet of their bedroom.

"No," Bianca answered. "It's okay. Let's stay here a little longer."

* * *

She came home from work to find him packing. He was frazzled, grabbing things in haste and shoving them into the suitcase currently taking up space on their kitchen table.

"Where are you going?" she asked. "I thought the case was local?"

Spencer looked up at her, and it was clear he hadn't noticed her come in. With his senses typically on high alert, it was a strange thing to see him so surprised at her appearance. An expression akin to guilt crossed his face, as though he'd been caught red-handed, in the middle of a secret he didn't want to reveal.

That was when her pulse began to quicken. "What's going on?" Erratic and unusual behavior on his part was never a good sign. It was rather unlikely that he was leaving her, their relationship was still strong. There were no migraines, no symptoms of his drug habit resurfacing.

"I need to go away for a little while," he said. "To Las Vegas. I need to see my mom." For the last few weeks there had been hushed phone conversations with doctors at Bennington, but when she questioned him about it, he always deflected. Not wanting to upset him, she decided to wait until he was ready to talk about it, but it was obvious something wasn't right.

"Is she okay?" Between their four parents, Diana Reid was the only one who had maintained a strong relationship with her child. The thought of something happening to her was unimaginable, even to Bianca.

"I don't know." His voice was low, quiet. It trembled. "I just need to go see her and… and try to fix this. Hotch told me to take as much time as I needed." A few more items were tossed into his bags. Books, notepads, a few more sweaters. A blanket. The journal she wrote him. A scarf, his pocketwatch. A fair fraction of his life, fitting into the suitcase.

"You don't know how long you'll gone for?" It looked like he was packing for an expedition, a quest for answers in Nevada. It was one thing for him to leave for a few days on a case, but this looked like weeks – at the very least.

When he glanced her way, an apology in his eyes, she knew the answer. "I'm not really sure yet."

"Then I'll come with you," she offered. "I'm sure if I tell my boss it's a family emergency, they'll give me time off. I can have a bag packed in-"

Spencer held up his hand. "No. I'm sorry B, but I just really need to do this _alone_." Her shoulders fell, and she tried to mask her disappointment. "You needed to talk to your parents alone, and I need to go to Bennington alone. Please, you understand, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." That didn't make it any less difficult to let him go. She sat in an armchair with a mug of tea and watched him race around the apartment, making sure there wasn't anything he'd forgotten.

"My flight leaves in two and half hours," he told her, throwing on his coat.

"I'll drive you."

"It's okay, I've already called a cab." This was what he did when he was hurting. Put distance between himself and others. In the years they'd been together, he had gotten better about opening up, but this hit so close to his heart. The one person by his side since the start was in trouble. Bianca took one of his scarves, and stood on her toes to gently wind it around his shoulders, trailing a hand down his chest.

"You're not alone in this, okay? You can call me whenever you need something. I'm here. I'm right here, my love." She kissed him gently, trying to tell him without words that whatever happened, he had people who would support him. He was loved. He wasn't alone.

"I love you," he whispered. One last hug, and then he was gone.

One week went by. Then two. Three. They hadn't spent this much time apart since getting married, and the loneliness was enveloping her. There were her friends at work, and in the District, but falling asleep alone and waking up alone three weeks in a row, without hearing his voice, was harder to deal with than she'd expected.

Upon learning that Penelope was still on lockdown, in protective custody at Quantico, they decided to cure their mutual isolation for one night (which was all that Hotch could reasonably allow, for security purposes). Bianca arrived with a bag full of enough snacks, movies, and blankets for the both of them.

Penelope was grateful just to have the company. Stir-crazy was an understatement, being stuck at Quantico was driving her downright mad. "Of course, I get it," she said. "It's for my own safety, but I still don't like it. This place feels empty when they're gone on a case, and now I'm stuck here on my own after they all go home for the night too."

Bianca gave her a hug. "I'm so sorry this is happening. If there's anything at all you need, just let me know. I'll have Spencer smuggle in treats for you, or books, or seasons of your favorite TV shows. And you can always call me."

"Thanks, but you don't have to do that. Although, I never did get around to watching the last season of _Parks and Rec_. If I was a real wizard, and not just a tech sorceress, I'm pretty sure my patronus would take the form of Leslie Knope. Ah! There's the tea." She'd been digging through cabinets in the kitchenette for leftover boxes from the Tea of the Month Club Emily had signed the team up for. September's tea had been one called Bear Trap; it smelled wonderfully of blackcurrant and rose.

With steaming mugs of tea, Garcia led her back to the old office that had been transformed into her temporary home. Bianca had only been to the BAU twice before, and the building seemed eerily quiet at night. By day it was a bustle of people and work, but now it was hard to imagine the hallways being anything other than peaceful, and perhaps a little ominous. Penelope shoved her bags aside and tossed a few cardigans onto the floor, making space on her two couches.

"You'll have to excuse the mess, it's a little cramped here in 'the bunker.' But it's cozy, and it's home. At least until all this gets sorted out." Despite her words, this room bore no marks of the vibrant spirit that was Penelope. Beige walls and standard pictures, a few neutral furniture fixtures. While her belongings were stored here, her heart wasn't in it.

"They're good at what they do," Bianca said. "If anybody can sort this mess out, it's them. They love you, and they'll do whatever it takes to protect you."

"I know. Being the one behind the screen though, I don't really worry about things happening to me. I worry about things happening to _them_." She shook her head, as if trying to shake off the threats of mysterious hitmen that plagued her. "Anywho, speaking of the team, how's Reid?"

Gaze averted to the mug in her hands, she tried to focus on the sensation of warmth coming from the tea, and not the feeling of cold in her heart created by his absence. "I'm not really sure."

"You haven't heard from him?" She had, but their communication was distant and infrequent. Rather than call, he mostly sent text messages, and short ones at that.

 _Made it here safe. Staying at a hotel near Bennington._

 _Busy with doctors. Will call you when I have more time.  
_

 _No news yet.  
_

 _Things are fine. Miss you. Still visiting with mom._

On the rare occasion she received a phone call from him, he dodged any questions about his mother's condition, until she eventually decided to stop asking. Even over the phone he sounded weary and lost. All she wanted to do was hold him in her arms and comfort him, but how could she when she was unable to even see him?

Penelope tilted her head, frowning. "You're not worried about that? You're not having relationship trouble, are you?"

"No, it's nothing like that. But his mom is sick, and I think he's really struggling. I want to make things better, but I don't know how – he won't even tell me what's wrong. I've never been close to my parents, but his mom is his hero. If it's bad, and he were to lose her, I wouldn't know what to do." It was hard for her to admit, but it had become a very real possibility. It was one thing to grieve the loss of a friend or mentor, but a parent? The only parents she knew how to grieve were those who were still alive.

Penelope was quiet for a few minutes, sipping her tea. "If it came to that, I could help. I lost both of my parents."

The revelation was brand new, and Bianca found herself momentarily stunned. For almost six years she'd known Garcia, but never once had it come up in conversation. "Oh. I had no idea. I – Penelope, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she replied, shrugging. "My dad died when I was really little, so I don't remember much about it; but my mom and my stepdad were killed when I was eighteen. Car accident."

That night they held each other a little closer, hugs marked by the tightness of understanding, as they shared stories and sympathies. For hours they talked and cried and laughed and watched John Hughes movies, before finally letting the quiet settle over them until they fell asleep.

At home, the quiet became her companion. Even when filled with sounds from music or television, there was an inherent emptiness in the atmosphere without him around. It was that way for almost two months. Thanksgiving passed without him. Ivy gave her a free bag of pumpkin coffee from Swing's to help lift her spirits. For Christmas he Skyped her for a few too-brief hours, and sent a package. New Year's was split between a party with her friends from Georgetown, and visiting with Penelope, still patiently serving out her sentence of protective custody at Quantico.

Then, in mid-January, a text came: _Coming home finally, but they need me at the BAU. About Garcia. It's important._

That was all she had for three days. Three days wondering what was going on, and wishing he would just come see her. Bianca didn't dare show up uninvited at the office, not knowing exactly what they were dealing with and not wanting to jeopardize the case.

On the third night, there was a phone call. Just not from Spencer.

"Hey little lady. It's Morgan."

"Derek? Is everything okay?" She did her best to keep at bay all the terrible reasons why he would be calling instead. Abducted. Missing. Injured. Killed. No, she told herself. This is Spencer. Her Spencer. He would come back to her, safe and sound. He had to.

"Yeah, it's all good. Listen, your husband may or may not be sitting alone at a park near my house. I don't know what's going on with him, but I think he needs you right now."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **With finals out of the way, I finally have a chance to update! Sorry for taking so long, and thank you thank you for being patient with me.**

 **Thank you to MrsCrosby87, girllyingbythesea901, danie568, Elizabeth9325, IrisReid, Emmy2489, prongs131, cr8zgurl, Dancer4Life2001, BrooklynGrace99, OctoberOpal, and isabel almeida for following/favoriting this story!**

 **And, as always, a very special thank you to dianakotori** (I definitely wanted her to have a life outside of their relationship, and one that makes a difference! And the best relationships are the wonderfully imperfect sort), **Tannerose5** (it's definitely an issue that will come up - as it has this chapter - but nothing is completely off the table for the time being :) only time will tell haha), **DeliciousAudrey** (oh goodness well I'm glad you enjoyed the fluff haha! I may just have to consider writing a little companion piece... and as for the quote, I hadn't included the scene from _The Witness_ because I'd actually already planned to use it here! Great minds think alike haha!), **EclipseRosen** (oh shucks! I'll take that as a compliment haha!), **and Love-Fiction-2016** (thanks!), **for leaving such kind and wonderful feedback. It truly does mean so much to me. What is a story without someone to share it with?**


	40. 40) Ours

It was getting late, the cold wind a biting reminder that he had other places he should be right now. The message wasn't quite reaching his feet though, which remained stubbornly planted in the dirt, his hands locked tight around the metal chains of the swingset. Entropy. The universe was always moving towards chaos, and for once he felt content to just sit there and let it happen. What was the point in fighting? He struggled and he struggled, and the world continued to throw curveballs his way. Seeing as though he was hopeless as sports, it seemed futile to keep trying to resist, to manage and get a few points on the board for himself.

"I thought I might find you here." The voice sent a shiver down Reid's spine, traveling through the air uninvited. He had to turn around on the swing in order to see her standing behind him, pulling her coat tighter to keep the winter wind at bay. How long had she been standing there? Her face was pink, her teeth chattering.

"How did you know I would be here?" he asked. The park was far from their apartment in Washington, it would take several metro stops and a fair amount of walking to get here.

Bianca shrugged. "Morgan _may_ have tipped me off. He said you could use some company." Wood chips crunched beneath her shoes as she made her way around to face him, and Reid allowed the chains of the swing to whip him back in the same direction. "So, are you going to tell me what's going on? You're gone for almost two months, and when you come home I don't see you for three days. You hardly even called."

"I was busy," he said quietly. As he spoke the words he knew that wasn't what she meant.

"Spencer, we've been here before. With Alex and Gideon. You know I'm not going to stop worrying about you until you explain what's upsetting you." Glancing up, he caught that telltale sign, her fingers pressed against her collarbone. It was hard to tell what was bothering him more – what had happened in Vegas, or the fact that he'd been forced to tell his team before he was ready, and Cat before his wife.

There was a chance he might have never been able to tell her, had tonight gone differently. Calculations were what he did best, and calculating risk was supposed to keep the team safe. Even though he'd considered every possible outcome, every scenario, he knew how close he'd come to taking one risk too many. Even from the beginning, it was dangerous.

He owed her the truth. If there was one person he _wanted_ to know the truth, it was her.

"It's my mom," he said. "I thought that it was just a problem with her medication, you know? Sometimes things have to be adjusted, but nothing was helping. She was still upset and just not really herself. I didn't want to visit her until she calmed down, in case I only made things worse, but I finally went to go see her when the doctors still didn't know what to do. And that's when it all made sense."

He closed his eyes, recalling that day at Bennington. An orderly had shown him into her room, where she sat on the bed with a book in her lap. With a gentle voice, the nurse informed Diana she had a visitor, and when she looked up it was obvious. Time slowed to a crawl as her eyes narrowed and she shook her head slightly. That expression was the one she made when she was confused, when she couldn't remember him. _One, two, three_. And then recognition slowly dawned on her face, and she stood to greet him. He was still breathless, all the air knocked from his chest when he realized that for those three seconds his mother – the woman who'd raised him, read to him – had no clue who he was.

"For three seconds, she didn't remember me. We've written letters almost every day since I left home. For years I was the only person she talked to or trusted, and she didn't remember me." Reid swiped away the bitter tears from his eyes. "They ran some tests and diagnosed her with early-onset dementia. Alzheimer's. I lost twice already, first to schizophrenia and then when I had to send her away. And now they're telling me I'll lose her two more times. She'll forget me first. All of the things we did together, she won't remember. Someday when I visit her, she won't remember that I got married, or where I work, or what my name is, or even that I'm her son. And eventually, the disease will eat away at her brain, and I'll lose her for good."

"Spencer…" Though she'd never been close to her own parents, Bianca knew how much his mother meant to him. When that day did come and he finally had to say goodbye, he could count on her to stand by him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't tell you because saying it out loud meant it was real," he said. "It meant accepting not just that my mom was sick, but… It's genetic, you know? Like schizophrenia. I wasn't ready to confront that reality because I wasn't ready to accept the possibility that someday I won't be able to remember you. I didn't want to scare you until I was sure, but I'm not old enough to be tested for it yet."

"You won't scare me off. And you didn't inherent the schizophrenia. It's possible you could dodge this too, isn't it?"

It was, but when had he ever been that lucky? To have avoided inherited either condition seemed improbable at best. "You know they couldn't get ahold of my father? I had to call him. No matter how sick mom gets, he keeps running away. He wouldn't even come to see her." All he wanted was to go back to when he was young, before his mom's condition worsened, before his father left. "I just don't understand."

"You know what I don't understand?" she asked. "Why you're out here, crying alone on a cold swingset when you could come home, where it's warm, and where you don't have to cry by yourself. You don't have to hide this from me. You don't have to go through it alone."

How many times would she tell him that before he finally accepted it? Maybe because a future without memories of her was one that he couldn't bear to imagine. He couldn't fathom it. Instead he cried, the tears stinging in the night air. Bianca just stepped closer, hugging him tight as he sat on the swing and cried for his mother, for her memories, for his own.

She ran her hands through his tangle of curls, softly assuring him that it was okay, that he wasn't alone. "You'll catch cold out here," she murmured. "Let's go home." His car was parked nearby, though Bianca insisted on driving them back, stating that he deserved to rest after a crazy week.

"You know, I nearly lost my wedding ring tonight," he said, not sure what had triggered that particular memory. When she asked how, he explained briefly about their plan to lure out the rest of the hitmen – and women. "Since I was the closest in age, I pretended to be a potential client who after four years of marriage wanted his pregnant wife killed."

"Wow. It doesn't get much lower than that."

"No it doesn't," he agreed. "She asked for my ring as _proof of my commitment to her_ , and then brilliantly deduced that I wasn't married, since four years would've left the band dinged and dulled. I managed to get it back after she was arrested though." By loudly claiming it was evidence as he took it. A professional hitwoman didn't need to know that he really was married, just not for four years.

No, that was the last thing he wanted. Bianca was _his_ , his personal starshine, a light he wanted to keep safe from all the monsters he wrestled with. He wanted to protect her. As they walked from car to apartment building, the cold wind blew around them, her coat billowing with the air. "Does it bother you that I was on a date with another woman?" asked Reid.

Her hand grasped for his left, fingers interlocked, and he could feel Bianca press lightly on the gold band residing on his fourth finger. "Only because she was a hitwoman. I hate the idea of losing you. It terrifies me that one day, Morgan or Hotch will show up at the door and tell me that something happened. But you made it out okay."

They reached his car, where he stood fishing around in his pocket for the keys. Before he handed them over he asked, "Do you think she's right?"

"Right about what?"

Cat would be at the station now, being processed. Perhaps she was still smug, or maybe she was crying. Or wearing that blank, emotionless stare. The events of that night wouldn't be fading from his memory anytime soon. Nearly everyone on his team had been put in danger that night, the restaurant was almost blown up, and Cat could've taken down both him and Morgan down. What if she had? What if he'd been killed without ever seeing Bianca again? Without explaining why he was gone for so long? He would never have been able to forgive himself.

"Do you think I'll forget who she is by the time she gets out?"

"I think she was just trying to hurt you. She wanted to win."

"I don't want to forget _you_ ," he whispered. It would be devastating, to forget everything they shared. Every happy memory, every date and holiday. Would there come a time when he couldn't recall the sound of her laugh or the way she looked at him early in the morning, when they were both just barely awake? "You make me happy. I don't want to lose you someday."

"You don't know that that's true. Even if it did happen, I wouldn't leave you. I would do everything I could to help you remember. I would write your story down in a book for you to read again and again and again."

He had no doubts she would, going beyond the ends of the earth time and time again for him. Bianca reached for the keys in his hand, but he pulled her into his arms instead, dropping his head onto her shoulder.

"I'm sorry I left you alone for so long."

"It's okay," she said. "It's okay. You're here now. Welcome home."

 _Everything eventually falls apart. That's entropy_. No, not everything. Not them.

* * *

Though he wasn't one to believe in signs, that spring he began to think the universe was trying to tell them something. They'd talked from time to time about the possibility of moving into a proper house. One with enough space for all their books, and room to work. No more listening to the various voices of their neighbors through thin walls at all hours of the night. It would be quieter and calmer a little further from the heart of the city. Back and forth the wavered, torn over staying and torn over leaving.

After all, many happy occasions had happened in that very apartment. So many moments that brought them closer together. Happiness and laughter had inhabited those rooms. It was familiar and it was safe.

On the other hand, plenty of sadness was attached to the space as well. Bitter and sweet. He could join her on the sofa and be hit with the simultaneous memories of the evening she'd fallen asleep there while watching a movie and he'd realized he was falling for her again; and of the night when he had gone too far into his own grief, and she had found him barely breathing. Things he never wanted to forget. Things he never wanted to remember.

Morgan showed them a few of his recently renovated properties, offering them at a lower price. They toured a few houses for sale, hoping to find one that could become their home. After hours of discussing and disagreeing, they tentatively considered bidding on one of Morgan's. Still, the apprehension outweighed interest.

Until the universe gave them a proper nudge. A letter showed up from her parents. Two weeks earlier, her brother had been convicted of the murder of Mia Kemper, and using the return address from their wedding invitations, they had attempted to reconcile with the child who wasn't behind bars for life. He found her at their kitchen table, reading over it for the third time.

"I keep looking for answers in all these words," she told him, "but I can't find any that mean something. That's all it is. Words."

"That's always been my experience with letters like that. You won't find any closure. They were never meant to give you that." Both his father's letter and Gideon's had served only to assuage the author's guilt.

"Did you ever contact your father after our wedding?" she asked.

He replied that he had. One night on a whim, he'd called William Reid. Uncomfortable small talk was made; a few awkward comments were traded. The entire conversation rang of obligation. His father gave a few excuses – for leaving, for not reaching out sooner, for not being a parent – but offered no apologies. Reid hung up feeling only a vague sense of disappointment, but couldn't find it in him to be surprised by it.

"They don't get to decide when it's convenient to be a parent," he said. "You owe them nothing. Does that letter tell you anything?"

She stared at the paper in her hands, expectantly, as though waiting for it to transform into something else. "Yeah. That my parents know where we live. And I don't like it."

"So let's move then."

"What? Are you serious."

"Sure. Why not?" Reid shrugged, and sat down next to her. The envelope between them, addressed with thick block letters. "We've talked about it before. You're not studying at the Law Center anymore, and moving into Virginia would shorten my commute. It'd be cheaper, too."

"You would really do that for me?" Her words carried a tone of disbelief that surprised him, and he reminded himself that despite the years they'd happily shared, she had been conditioned to give and not expect to receive. Receiving a letter from those who had hurt her deepest would bring up difficult feelings. Such a response elicited one of greatest sympathy from him.

"I'd do anything for you," he answered earnestly, taking her hands. Giving her some sensation to anchor herself to. Never mind of course, the countless things she had done for him. Even if she hadn't sacrificed for him time and time again, he would do this for her. Anything for her. Love wasn't about reciprocity or obligation. Love was selfless. Unconditional.

"But you love being able to visit the museums and the monuments." Trivial things compared to her happiness and peace of mind. He would give up the Smithsonian as long as he could keep an archive of every happiness they shared, a museum of memory. Monumental was their love, and it could not be eroded by weather or time.

"They'll only by a train ride away."

"And the libraries?"

He laughed. "There are plenty of libraries. There's only one of you."

When she smiled, the weight of galaxies seemed to tumble from her shoulders.

And so that evening, it was decided that it was time to move on – and move out. If the unwelcome portions of their pasts were reappearing at their door, perhaps they needed to leave the past behind. New memories were waiting to be made. New adventures were ready to be had.

They bought the house.

It was a small house, blue and cottage-like. Nothing grandiose, but that had never been their style. Trees in the backyard, flowers in the front. A bay window in the living room, much to her delight. Their friends helped them to pack the life they'd lived for the last year and a half into boxes, and move just across the river. There was so much more space – for the first time, they could have a proper office, rather than making do with the living room coffee table. There was something about walking into an empty house, with rooms that had yet to be filled up, knowing that all that emptiness would soon be full of carefully cherished memories.

It took two weeks to unpack, most of which was just a matter of organizing their library worth of books. While assembling the furniture, they set the mattress on the floor of their bedroom and slept there until the bedframe was put back together. In those two weeks, he realized she hadn't thrown away the letter yet.

Reid could see her getting caught up in her emotions again, playing back scenes only she could see. Whatever ghosts she had laid to rest after going to Columbus, had been exhumed by the sudden communication. When he tried to check on her, she would give him a tired smile and assure him she would be fine. Those words from her mouth always conjured up the image of a candle burning at both ends, trying desperately to stay lit, inevitably burning itself out in sheer exhaustion. Always she was trying to take care of the people around her, but taking care of her was his job.

On a day when the number of boxes were dwindling and their possessions were settling into place, he slipped out into town and returned with a box. Bianca had been going through yet another stack of books they needed to shelve when he returned.

"What's that?" she asked, has he set it on their coffee table.

"I'll show you," he assured her, "but I want to tell you something first." She tilted her head, waiting, and he walked over to her, enveloping her hands in his own.

"This is our new house, and it's our new home. But my home is still here. With cold hands." He traced a path up her arms and then down to the tops of her thighs. "Legs that never stop running." Up to cup her face, his fingers brushing her temples. "A mind that turns words into magic like no one else can." Finally, he placed one hand on her chest, feeling the rhythm of her heart beating steadily beneath his palm. "And a heart that loves without end. I'm home as long as I'm with you, and all I want is for you to be happy. I know home hasn't always been a comforting thing for you, but none of that history has to live in this place. Your family has never been here. This is ours. If you want to keep it that way, we can. I just want you to feel safe. You're my home." With that, he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Bianca hugged him close, her head on his chest, where he was sure she could hear his own heart. "Thank you. Thank you for loving me that much."

"Well, I was worried I wouldn't be able to get my point across, so I brought you something to remind you of home." Opening the box, he watched as she peered inside, and a laugh came from her lips of its own accord.

"You bought snickerdoodles?"

"They taste like home," he said, echoing sentiments from years earlier. "And I know you like them." At times like these, he always tried to ensure she was eating enough.

She shook her head, a grin on her face as she reached for one of the cinnamon-sugarcoated cookies. "Why do I get the feeling you're going to end up eating most of these before tomorrow?" she teased.

"Because you know you me too well."

"Of course I do." Bianca squeezed his hand. "You're my home too."

The next morning, he found the letter in the trash, gone like the tension she'd been carrying. And just like that, they were home.

* * *

 _"For the two of us, home isn't a place. It is a person. And we are finally home." - Stephanie Perkins_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I'm sorry it's been another long gap between chapters! I really wish I had the time to post more often, and I appreciate your patience! There aren't many chapters left, and I'm trying to tie everything up properly (though Season 12 has thrown a few curveballs into my plot plans).**

 **Anyways, thank you to nighttime-reveries, incompletedarkness, darkawesomeness, ihavenoideawhattocallmyself** (amazing pen name) **, LetsBeFrenemies** (can we just be friends? haha) **, mick01, NaruNaruko-chan, llttm, Frida Claire, Jacqueline3005, CellophaneCatastrophy, AtheneNoctua21, and grim assassin sherlock101 for following/favoriting this story!**

 **To dianakotori** (thank you! And agreed, Entropy hurt my heart so. It's definitely psychological, but the physiological is uncertain for her as women who have had serious eating disorders sometimes have trouble conceiving later in life), **tannerose5** (oh fear not! No divorce here. Though he does hate being a burden), **Love-Fiction-2016** (it's a little up-in-the-air for them, but hey, we've got chapters left. Anything's possible! ), **DeliciousAudrey** (ah yes, that poor little swingset. He's made progress, but I think it being his mother would really pull the rug out from under him, so to speak. I hope I've been able to explain his thought process here), **nighttime-reveries** (for which I apologize!), **and Emma KB** (sorry it's taken so long! I think we all want to see cute little mini-Reids running around. Hey, show writers, get on this!) **thank you so much for taking the time to leave a review. Your feedback means so very much to me, and I appreciate it greatly!**

 **Thank you so very much for reading this fic! And for sticking with me through 40 whole chapters! How has it been that long? I'll see you for 41... :)**


	41. 41) A Mess of a Masterpiece

Reid couldn't manage to sit still. A cyclical routine was developing; he would pace the hall, then sit down, unable to keep his leg from shaking. Continually wringing his hands, pulling at his knuckles. Waiting was impossible, he just wanted to know if Morgan was going to be okay.

Walking into that house had been torturous, not knowing what he'd find there. If they hadn't gotten there in time… if Derek had been… No, he couldn't dwell on that. He was alive, that was all that mattered. He was alive. Right now, he had to leave the rest to the doctors. Right now, he needed to find a way to calm himself down, as his behavior was attracting nervous glances from other hospital visitors and staff. Recitation and memorization always relaxed his mind, and so he let his thoughts wander towards the first piece he could think of.

 _When your eyes are tired, love,  
come and lay a while with me,  
tell me stories of the maps upon your heart  
draw me pictures of your history so I can see  
you for the masterpiece you are._

 _Keep me in your company,  
and I'll keep you safe from harm.  
Far from the ghosts that haunt your past,  
let me be your good-luck charm.  
For the world seems such a softer place  
when I'm wrapped up in your arms._

 _And if you need to sleep, I'll stay  
close enough to help you keep  
those nightmares of yours at bay.  
Take the time you need, my love,  
I will wait  
I will wait  
I will wait._

It was hers, of course it was hers. Page 89 of the notebook of poems she'd given him. Since Amsterdam, he'd read them all no less than eighteen times. Just to remember her words was enough to help him breathe a little easier. In times like these, she was the steadier one; she had faith in all the places he had doubts. Reid _had to believe_ that Morgan was going to be okay. There was no room to doubt this. It was not an opinion, but a truth, that the world needed Derek Morgan in it. Savannah needed him. The team needed him. Reid needed him.

And until he could see Morgan, he needed to keep it together.

 _Breathe,_ he reminded himself. Oxygen in. Carbon dioxide out.

 _Whenyoureyesaretiredlovecomeandlayawhilewithmetellmestoriesofthemapsuponyourheart –_ No, that still wasn't calm. In. Out. Oxygen. Carbon dioxide. _– draw me pictures of your history so I can see you for the masterpiece you –_

"Spence." JJ's hand settled on his shoulder, halting his mental litany. "We're all going home to get some rest. You should go too." She spoke with the voice of a mother, urging her child on to bed.

"I'm fine, thanks. I'd rather stay here until he wakes up."

"It's 6 AM," she said. "You've been up all night. The doctors said it could be a few days. And you know that as soon as he's awake, Savannah will tell us. Besides, Garcia may have already called someone to come get you." She nodded towards the end of the hallway, where he could just barely make out a corner of the waiting room. Sure enough, a small figure was curled up in one of the plastic chairs, evidently fast asleep. "She's been out there since we brought him in."

Leave it to Garcia to send in the one person who could convince him to go home. He sighed, and glanced towards the opposite end of the hall. Through two sets of doors was a series of rooms, and in one of those rooms his best friend was still unconscious; Garcia and Savannah watching over him. "When he's awake, we'll know?"

"The minute he's up," JJ promised. He would be. Because Derek Morgan was a fighter. And _this_ was a fight Reid clearly wasn't going to win. Much as he wanted to deny it, his body was tired and he needed to sleep. Over thirty-six hours had passed since he last went to bed. He gathered up his things, and made his way to the woman waiting for him, after a quick detour to the hospital cafeteria.

With a gentle hand, he rubbed her shoulder. "Hey, Bianca, wake up. It's me."

Blinking awake, she glanced up to see him sitting beside her. Bianca's smile was one of relief. A bright and welcome sight in the middle of such a sterile environment. He was supposed to go home after they returned from the case, but then they got the call from Savannah. Went straight to work tracking down Morgan. Stormed the remote cabin where he was being held, then accompanied him to the hospital where Savannah met them. It was a storm of a day, whirlwind events that kept all of them on their toes.

And he hadn't been able to tell her why he couldn't come home. How she must've worried.

"I'm so sorry," he said.

"It's okay," she assured him. "You've had a crazy day." She reached up to brush hair back from his eyes, gently running her fingers across his cheek as though to prove to herself everything really was alright. Tension he'd been carrying began to dissipate at her touch. At a tiny table in the already-crowded room, he presented her with slightly-fresh coffee and slightly-cold waffles. She was pleased nonetheless, and he took comfort in the familiarity of the routine. Share breakfast, hold her hand, talk through a case until it all felt better.

"I was so scared," he told her. "I really thought we might lose him."

"Because of what's happened before?" This wasn't the first time an unsub had tried to hurt one of them. It seemed that at one point or another, each member of the team had been held hostage or personally targeted.

"This time was just… it was this awful feeling of déjà vu. We dealt with this only two years ago with JJ. I just hate seeing my friends hurt, over and over again."

All they had to go on was Savannah's frantic phone call, and the belief that Morgan would be strong enough to survive. The whole time, they believed the best while fearing the worst. It practically paralyzed him, the fear. Then when that gun went off, and they had no way of knowing what happened, he was only able to keep thinking because he had to believe that somehow, _somehow_ , his friend would make it out alive.

And he had. Thank god, he had.

"Oh, Spencer… I'm sorry you had to go through that."

It was a night he wouldn't soon forget. The panic, the endless drive out to the woods, the terror on Savannah's face. It was hard, having someone you loved so much in this line of work. It came with the knowledge that if something happened to you, that person would be deeply hurt. On the other hand, it gave you all the more strength to stay alive.

And he wouldn't forget the look that passed between him and Garcia as they made their way to elevator. After over eleven years, they hardly needed words. Just two nods. One to say, _we'll find him, I promise._ One to reply, _I know you will. Be careful._

"That reminds me, Penelope mentioned she and Savannah might be here a while…" Bianca reached for her bag, the oversized sleeves of the cardigan she wore slipping far over her fingers. One of his – had that become another habit of hers, wearing his clothes when she was missing him or worrying about him? "I brought some books and magazines - oh and the gift shop here sells flowers! It might make the place feel a little more homey. You think that's okay?"

Even running on little sleep, she was looking out for them. "I think that's perfect," he told her, squeezing her hand.

Bianca smiled at him, carefully stacking the gifts on the table. She pushed them into a neat stack, asserting some manner of order in the midst of the chaos. "I just don't want Savannah to feel alone in this. I know how hard it is to watch you all leave week after week to run into some dangerous place. And if that were you… I just hope nothing like that ever happens to you."

It was something they'd all grappled with at one point or another. There were people out there who needed the BAU to help bring home their family members, or at least bring them justice. That came at the cost of leaving their own loved ones behind, not knowing what lay waiting for them wherever the jet took them next. There wasn't anyone on the team who had managed to escape a few scars at the hands of an unsub, save for Tara perhaps, and only because she was the newest addition to the unit.

It scared them more than they let on. Reid had heard his teammates talk of their fears at various points in their careers, but one that they shared was the fear of never returning home, of never being able to say goodbye to their partners and children and friends. To be denied one last chance to hold them close or hear their voice or fall asleep to the sound of their breathing. It haunted him, that fear.

"I will always come back to you," he promised. "No matter how long it takes."

The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the landscape in hues of orange and gold. Even the passenger seat of his Volvo felt so much more comfortable than the waiting room chair.

Home was a welcome sight, he hadn't even gotten inside the house before Hotch called them back to the office. While the rest of the world was waking up, Reid was very much ready to go back to sleep. Trudging up the stairs, he fumbled to remove his tie, wanting to get to bed as quickly as possible. To his surprise, she followed him up.

"It's Saturday," she replied, when he asked about it. "I don't have to work today."

So it was. The change in day hardly registered in the rush to find Morgan. "You didn't sleep last night?" he guessed, the possibility just dawning on him.

Bianca shook her head. "I was worried. You called in a panic to say you couldn't come home just yet. I thought something must've happened to one of you. I just didn't know what." She tugged the bedroom curtains closed, blocking out the morning light. "I stayed up waiting for news. Garcia called me once you all got to the hospital."

After being awake for so long, to crawl into bed felt heavenly. Better still to have her there with him. They burrowed under the covers, enveloped in a world where ex-military hitmen couldn't reach them, and serial criminals didn't exist. It was soft and warm, and the world was gentle there. Two hearts beating in a murmured symphony.

His eyes were tired, but here she was in his arms. Home. The perfect place to rest, to sleep, to wait.

* * *

His head hurt and his shoulder stung and all he wanted was to lie down for a little while. They had done good today. The victim was still alive, the unsub was in custody. Exhaustion was a sign of success. The good sort of tired, not the type that weighed you down and filled your lungs with the fog of guilt, making it hard to breathe.

Reid found Bianca sitting on their bed, a small stack of case files beside her and her laptop balanced on her legs. At the sound of his entrance, she didn't even glance his way.

"Hey," he said softly. "I'm home." No response. Taking a seat beside her, he glanced at the stack of file folders, labeled with names he'd heard only in passing. It was a big case, charging the Baltimore Police Department with violations of civil rights and police brutality. In her eyes he could see her own fatigue, after working all day. When she set her heart on something, she felt so passionately and so deeply about it that her whole energy was put into it. Absorbed completely by the project, she could wear herself out trying to give all she had to offer.

"Hey, B." Even her nickname generated no response. "Is everything okay?"

Now she turned to him, regarding him coolly. "No, it's not, actually."

"What's upset you?" Keyboard clicking was the only sound, as she frantically typed away in stubborn silence.

"You," she answered, finally. The word had all the weight of a carefully aimed dart, one meant to hit the bullseye of his heart.

That response did so quite effectively, catching him by surprise. "Me? What did I do?"

Eyes narrowed, she shut her laptop with more force than was necessary. "Well, for one thing, you almost got yourself killed today!"

 _Oh_. That's what this was about. "H-how did you know about that?"

"Penelope called me earlier to ask if you were okay, and when I didn't understand, she explained the situation to me. She told me you knowingly went into that barn where the unsub was without your vest or your gun, and put yourself directly in the line of fire. What's more, you got yourself shot!"

"It barely grazed me," he said, his shoulder burning with a flare of pain and a hint of shame. Grazed was underselling it, and he knew that. The wound, however, was wrapped in gauze beneath his shirt, and she didn't need to know how close that bullet had come to hitting him in the chest. "The victim was in danger, but the unsub was a sc-"

"I don't care!" she interjected. "I don't care who they were or what they did. You could've died! She could've killed you with that shot! You didn't even tell me that! You didn't call to let me know you'd been hurt!" The words were coming faster and more franticly as her frustration came to the surface.

Reid said nothing, stunned into silence by the uncharacteristic outburst. Hands locked together, he stared down at the bedspread. The same cream-colored sheets he'd had for years, that belonged now to two people. This space was theirs, and there had been many a sacred moment within the walls of their bedroom. Arguing was far from the divine feeling of comfort he'd come to associate with it.

"I have a life too, you know." It came as an accusation. "I'm not just your wife. I don't just wait around for you to come home, I have a job and I can't do that work if I'm worrying about you dying out there in the field! You can't do things like that, Spencer! Your life isn't just yours anymore, you share it with people, and you can't just throw it on the line whenever you want!"

It made it sound as though he'd carelessly tossed it away. Like a skipping stone or an empty bottle. That wasn't true. Nothing he did was uncalculated or enacted without thought. "Would you give me a chance to explain?" he asked, trying not to get defensive. This wasn't like her. They didn't argue, not like this. In wordless response, she grabbed her laptop and folders and walked out the bedroom door.

Reid leapt to his feet, following her into the hall. "Bianca!"

She was already halfway down the stairs. "Just leave me alone, okay?" On the last syllable her voice wavered, and though it pained him to hear her on the verge of tears, there was an anger in her tone that rooted him to floor. It rose up like a wall, kept him from following after her. People needed space sometimes. This was one of those times. When she was upset, she physically distanced herself. Went for a run, walked out the door, took refuge downstairs. So he stepped back to watch her from just out of sight, peering over the railing. On the living room couch she was huddled up, a thin blanket around her shoulders and the glow of her laptop shining blue in the dim light. Soft sounds floated up from below, the sort made when a person was crying, but trying not to let it show.

Reid went back to the bedroom with an aching shoulder and an aching heart. It was futile to try to talk to her in this state. She was capable of being incredibly stubborn at times, and seeing as though she would be camped out downstairs indefinitely, he tried to sleep. For hours he lay awake, tossing in turning in the empty space. It was one thing to sleep alone in a hotel bed, a place that wasn't theirs. It was another to be alone in a space where he always found her. Knowing that the reason she wasn't there was because she was angry. That fury was unfamiliar. Why? Where had it come from?

It hurt to know she didn't trust him. This was his area of expertise, something he'd been doing for twelve years. There were dangers associated with the job, but she was well aware of that. From the moment they met, she had been cognizant of what his duties entailed, and what could go wrong.

Around 3 AM, having given up on rest, he figured it was safe to venture to the living room. From the closet he grabbed a few thick blankets and crept down the stairs. Bianca had fallen asleep on the sofa, her laptop still open on the coffee table. He gently laid two quilts over her, tucking them in around her with care. Then he grabbed an armful of books from the shelf in the living room and sat down in the armchair to read. It took only two before, blissfully, sleep overtook him.

The sound of his name woke him in the morning. Bianca sat on the couch, still buried beneath blankets, a puzzled look on her face. "When did you come down here?" she asked.

"Sometime around 3." He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "I couldn't rest knowing you were upset. I just wanted to be near you. Can we talk, please?"

Exhaustion was hardly discernable from apprehension when she sighed, resting her head in her hands for a brief moment before agreeing. The quilts were gathered around her, a soft shield to protect her from whatever she didn't want to confront.

"I'm mad at you," she said. "You willingly went into a dangerous situation without a vest or a gun. That unsub could have killed you. For someone so smart, how could you be so _stupid?_ "

Reid crafted his sentences carefully, treading on uncertain ground. "I've been in dangerous situations before. That's the job, you know that. You've always known that." The importance of his career was something he'd always thought she understood. That job was so much of who he was, and that team was his family. Understanding was what made them stronger. Strength was the opposite of what he felt, at a loss of an explanation as to why the woman he loved was so angry at him this time.

"That doesn't mean I'm okay with the thought of you dying! You didn't even tell me about it! How could you do that to me? After what happened to..."

"After what?"

What little composure she was maintaining broke. "After what happened to Morgan, I can't stop worrying about you. You could have been killed. I've almost lost you too many times, and you promised you wouldn't leave me like that. I can't lose you, I just can't!" Tears clouded her gaze, her shoulders shaking with the effort it took to hold them back.

"Come here," he told her. Invitation was all it took for her to abandon the couch, and he pulled her down onto his lap, rubbing parallel lines up and down her back as she clung to him. Travelers reunited after journeying through distant lands. Anger built for itself an impenetrable fortress, an island in its own right, but no matter how far they roamed they had a habit of returning back to each other.

A night sleeping in an armchair hadn't done much to help the pain in his arm, and neither did the position they were currently in, but the ache was worth tolerating for the chance to finally hold her since coming home. Just to be close to her was soothing.

"Do you really believe I wasn't thinking?" he asked. "I promised you that I wouldn't leave you, and I intend to keep my word. I would never do that to you. Before I met you, I could be reckless in the field. I didn't place much value on my own life, but I have you to share it with now. I don't run into anything until I've calculated and re-calculated every possible scenario in my mind. If I wasn't absolutely certain I could rescue the victim without getting hurt, and that the best way to do it was without any protection, I would have done something else. I could never hurt you like that."

The wound on his shoulder was a reminder his calculations weren't perfect. The unsub's response time was a fraction of a second faster than he'd anticipated, but he was able to react before any real damage could be done.

"Then why didn't you tell me about it?"

"Like you said, you have a life outside of our marriage. You have friends and work. I knew you would worry, and I knew you had a big trial to prepare for." The incident on the case had been minor, something he hadn't thought merited immediate notification. It was something he could easily explain once home, without having to distract her from work.

The sun through the window gave the living room a warm glow. Bianca shifted slightly, resting her head against his uninjured shoulder. "Why did you go in in the first place?" There wasn't a bitterness in her inquiry this time, to his relief.

"The unsub was a woman, and she had schizophrenia. She didn't want to hurt anyone, but her delusions were too strong. I couldn't just let the local police get into a shootout with her, not when I knew how to talk her down. It was a calculated risk, and one I felt I had to take."

Her eyes softened, and he didn't need verbal confirmation to know she understood his rationale. That simple explanation was enough for her to see what he had in that woman – that she'd reminded him of his mother. Despite her being fifteen years younger than Diana Reid, she invoked the image of her, stirring a strong protective instinct within him. If nobody in that small town could be counted on to defend her, how could he not?

"Spencer, I'm sorry."

"You didn't know." His fingertips meandered lazily over her arm. Every word, every touch meant to be a reassurance that all was well.

"I shouldn't have yelled at you. I should've let you explain. I guess between this case and what happened to Morgan, I've just been kind of stressed out. It's hard when you're away," she said.

A strange inverse, how the more time they spent together the harder it was to be apart.

"It's hard for me too," he told her. "What if in the summer, I took a long weekend? We could go out to California, or to Chicago. I'd like to see the place where you went to college. It's on the lake, right?" Perhaps what they needed was the opportunity to get away from profiling and legal procedure, and spend time together. To leave the work behind, even for a few days.

"It is. Loyola is beautiful, and it's not far from the Art Institute and the Field Museum. I know how you love museums."

"I do indeed. Maybe we could go to one today, once you're finished up with work? We can pay a visit to the National Gallery, if you'd like."

She gave him a smile. "I would. Very much." That was the woman he knew, lightness and an infectious sense of peace.

"Then how about you get started, and I'll make us some coffee?" They stood from the armchair, and he went to search the kitchen for her favorite roast. One particular cabinet was reserved for coffee and tea, filled to the brim with various packages. Upon opening it, you were certain to be overwhelmed by a twenty different scents – give or take a few. Tea bags and coffee beans, enough of an assortment to start a tiny café. Two people living together were bound to disagree on things from time to time, and an argument here was inevitable, he supposed. They both had their faults. He was passive-aggressive. She was stubborn. They were both workaholics. What mattered was that they worked it out. They listened, and in the end, they always forgave.

This job didn't just ask a great deal from agents, but from their partners as well. It wasn't easy, and if she let her emotions get the better of her when she was already on edge, he wasn't going to hold it against her. He loved her. Even when she was running away with her thoughts or letting them out in a pent-up shout. Even when she hogged the blankets or used all the hot water or insisted on making a meal herself in order to maintain some level of control over the ingredients. When standing at the finish line of a local half-marathon, at 7 AM in the cold, waiting for her to finish so he could drive her home, he still loved her.

Because they were both messy people with messy lives and messy pasts. There was no one else he'd rather be with in the struggle, or the triumph. They took care of each other, mess and all. Nothing beautiful, no grand painting or sculpture or scientific discovery, was every done without a little mess.

He started a pot of coffee, letting the smell of the grounds carry through the kitchen. That alone was enough to start to shake the fatigue he carried. More comforting was the pair of arms he felt wrap around his waist from behind, embracing him in quiet contentment. The coffee percolated in a steady stream, and everything around them was bathed in the softness of the morning.

Bianca stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. He smiled, letting his hands drop to cover hers, stroking her skin with his thumb in tiny circles. "I love you too," he murmured.

* * *

No artist could have rendered the day more beautiful. The sky was brilliant blue, the grass shining in the sun. They sat in white chairs out on the lawn, surrounded by friends and family of Morgan and Savannah. Weddings were meant for such perfect afternoons.

"I never thought I'd see the day," Emily laughed. "Derek Morgan, a married man." She had jumped through hoops at Interpol to get time off for the wedding, and had flown in from London just that morning, swearing she wouldn't miss the wedding of her friend. After all, he'd claimed, she sort of owed him for the whole faked-death ordeal. The least she could do was come to the ceremony.

Emily sat to Bianca's left, along with JJ and her boys, while Penelope was to her right, nearest the aisle. Tara had been unable to get away from research for the day, and the men of the BAU were otherwise occupied at the present moment.

Penelope sprung to his defense. "Oh, have some faith in him! He just needed to find the right person!"

"Are we sure she's not just an actress he hired to make him look good? I mean, she's gorgeous."

JJ laughed. "I never thought Emily Prentiss would be coming up with conspiracy theories at a time like this. You know you're not supposed to drink until _after_ they say I do, right?"

Emily held her hands up in surrender. "On that, I plead the fifth." They all burst into giggles at that. Bianca was about to speak when a firm hand found her shoulder, and she turned in surprise to see Rossi.

Emily whistled. "Well, don't you look dapper. I thought you were supposed to be back ensuring the groom doesn't get cold feet?" The wedding was being held at an event center the Hayes family had chosen, and while the wedding was outside, the wedding party had inside preparing.

"It's not the groom I'm worried about," Rossi said, raising his eyebrows. "Which is why I'll be needing to borrow Mrs. Reid. You've been summoned."

Bianca turned to the others with a shrug, and followed as Rossi led her across the lawn and into the building. Down a hall was the room where the groomsmen had been getting ready all morning. Three times Rossi knocked, before the door swung open, and Morgan grinned at them.

"Much as I love you, I regret to inform you this room is only for the brothers of this wedding party," he teased. "Otherwise you know Garcia would have been in here hours ago."

Bianca laughed, knowing full well he spoke the truth. The other men in the room were milling about behind him. Savannah's brother gave a brief glance their way, and Hotch waved at her as he fastened his cuff links, as Spencer quickly brushed past the groom.

"Sorry Morgan, I'll be right back," he said. Having evidently completed his mission, Rossi slipped back into the room, closing the door behind him. They were the only two in the quiet hallway, covered with navy carpet. Tiny golden diamonds zigzagged across the dark hue. Spencer rocked back and forth on his toes, unable to stand still.

"Is everything okay?"

"I can't do this," he sighed. There was no need to ask what he was referring to. It was the same thing he had been agonizing about for weeks. Practically since the moment Morgan asked him to be his best man, he'd panicked. It wasn't standing with him or showing up to the wedding. It wasn't even the bachelor party – Rossi had volunteered to take care of that, much to his relief. It was the speech.

Bianca reached up to straighten his tie, a bemused smile on her face. "You absolutely can." Red silk slipped easily through her fingers, the fabric no longer crooked. No matter how many times he adjusted ties himself, they always seemed to end up a little off-kilter. Despite the lack of symmetry, he looked dapper and polished.

"What if I mess up? There's so many people here. I don't do well in front of crowds. I'm too awkward."

"You'll be just fine. I know you. You've been practicing for weeks, and every word is perfect." He'd asked her to help him write it, but she offered to act as his editor instead. What was important was to speak from the heart. After all, there was a reason Morgan had asked Spencer to do this for him. That reason apparently wasn't as clear to him, as he'd been second-guessing his role ever since.

"But all these people don't know me. All their friends and family. What if what I say isn't good enough?"

"It is. You spoke at our wedding, and it was wonderful."

A shaky, self-conscious laugh escaped his throat. "That was different. I was the one getting married, and you were right next to me."

Following wedding tradition, the bridesmaids and groomsmen would be seated at the head table with Morgan and Savannah during the reception, while she would be at a table with the other members of the BAU family. "And I'll be right across from you this time. If you get nervous, just look at me, okay? I'll be right there. You can do this, and Morgan is going to love it."

Dozens of times had he spoken at lectures and conferences. He no longer needed reassurance before such a speech, his confidence having improved, but this wasn't academic. Personal, rather, which carried a different sense of anxiety. Not disapproval, but disappointment. It wasn't the crowd, she suspected, he was afraid of letting down. It was his friend.

"You think so?"

"I know so. Now, you'd better get back in there," she said, nodding towards the doors. "The groom is waiting for you." She pressed a quick kiss to his lips before heading back outside.

Exiting the building, she scanned the rows of chairs looking for her place among unrecognizable faces before she spotted Penelope waving her over. The brilliant pink of her dress against the green lawn conjured up the image of spring in her mind. Spring, when life began anew and everything was beautiful. It was fitting for a wedding, a new chapter beginning in marvelous splendor.

"The petite poet returns! Tell me, how's my Baby Boy doing? Does he look every bit as amazing as any god would in a tuxedo?"

"He looks very happy," she answered, reclaiming her seat among her friends. The people who had become her extended family. Had there really once been a time she felt like an outsider among them? Standing as an anxious observer and searching for Spencer, the only person she felt she had a place with. Now, in a sea of faces, she scanned the crowd for them, and found that her place was by their side.

"What about Reid?" asked JJ. "Is he okay?"

Notes of music came from the piano, signaling the approach of the wedding party. Bianca glanced back towards the building to see them lined up. At the back, was Spencer arm in arm with Savannah's maid-of-honor. Smiling.

"Yeah," she said, a smile creeping onto her face at the sight of him looking so relaxed. "I think he will be."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So most of this chapter centers around the Morgan story-arc, which had a rather large impact on the show, so of course it would affect their lives in this story as well.**

 **Thanks to Nina3KPop, DivisionRecruit, youngbones7, Starrzz495, ChoKyumiCassie, roger-rabitx3, BTTWYA, GuardianAngel45, Lupe Rouge, xXForeverAKilljoyXx, XxWinterGreenxX, Georgia-Virginia Princess, Torchwhovian, Lil-B-Rebel, EvySoph, DeidraWalker, and MagicBrownie for following/favoriting this story!**

 **As always, I'm grateful to dianakotori** (thank you! Wise words. Life is always full of new twists and turns!), **Love-Fiction-2016** (thanks!), **and DeliciousAudrey** (ahh hopefully not enough tears to be a problem! Haha, thanks so much! Hearing it feels canon is such an honor! And I definitely want them to feel realistic - I think they absolutely would have their bad days, but I also try to make sure any fights I include feel appropriate and important enough. This felt like one of those moments) **for taking the time to leave a review! Your feedback means so much to me - it helps me to figure out what I can improve on as a writer, and what I'm doing well. And I just love hearing from you all! :)**

 **Now I'm off to cry over last night's episode.**


	42. 42) Keep You Safe

They arrived at the same time as Dr. Lewis, who looked as beautiful as she was brilliant. As though Bianca didn't admire the newest addition to the team enough, it turned out she also spoke French. Hayden – Rossi's ex-wife turned mother-of-his-child turned now-girlfriend – was positively delighted by the fact that two of them understood the language well enough to hold a conversation. One by one, the team trickled in, with significant others and children in tow. It was almost amusing to look around the garden and realize that while everyone else was dressed for a dinner party, Bianca and Spencer looked as though they might be slipping out halfway through to go lecture at a college.

Garcia thought they were cute though. "You even match! Seriously, stop being so adorable!" Indeed, though completely by accident, his shirt was almost exactly the same shade of pink as the dress she wore. As Sam had been unavailable, and her best friend was home with his new family, Penelope was more than happy to sit in on what Spencer promised would be a thoroughly entertaining magic show. Jack and Henry were clearly delighted by each card trick he managed to pull off, and for the grand finale, he employed a few slight of hands to reveal not only Jack's card, but a whole strand of multicolored ribbon from behind the Penelope's ear.

Bianca couldn't help but laugh as he tumbled to the ground. It warmed her heart to see them all together, so happy. Their day had been chaos, this was the opposite. Juxtaposed against tired faces were wide smiles and bright eyes, skin lit by the glow of tiny candles around their table, and tensions eased with stories and jokes. Work took a toll on Spencer, and it was a nice change of pace to see him with his colleagues, his best friends, laughing at something rather than fearing for someone's life. It had been especially hard for him after Morgan left, for while he was over the moon that his best friend had a happy family, it was hard to say goodbye to the time they had shared.

Nothing could last forever though, not even the best of things. Garcia's phone went off, and then Hotch's, and in a heartbeat the team was filing into Rossi's kitchen, shutting the doors on a lighthearted night, and the people that meant the most to them. Only three remained at the table, herself, Hayden, and Will; the boys off playing in the yard.

"Can't be good," Will sighed. The look on all their faces said enough. Whatever it was, it was serious enough to demand a briefing behind closed doors.

"When it comes to their job, nothing ever is," Bianca agreed. Clandestine meetings could only mean danger, something more serious than the typical case.

Hayden looked between them for a moment, stunned in silence. "Is it always like this?" she asked. "With them running off? How on earth do you manage it?"

They turned to face the woman, sympathetic to her frustration. When you fell in love with someone, you never expected to spend so much time apart from them. Not everyone could handle that sort of relationship. Tara's former fiancé, Douglas, had left because of her work. Rossi's marriages had ended three times. The strain of his job kept adding pressure to Hotch and Haley until they fell apart. It wasn't for a lack of love, just a lack of time.

Will had been at it the longest. "It's not always easy, but we've got two boys at home, so we find a way to make it work. We might argue sometimes, but I love Jennifer, and I know that just because she has a duty to her team doesn't mean she's choosing the job over us."

"But the goodbye, it never gets any easier does it?" Hayden stared forlornly at the curtained doors.

"No, it doesn't. But to be fair, there's just as many hellos," said Will.

"I suppose I'm just scared I won't be able to handle it. The separation. Worrying that something could happen to him."

It was a natural reaction. Bianca couldn't help but think of all the BAU had been through. She thought about Spencer's abduction, the drug addiction he'd been forced into, the nightmares that plagued him without warning. All the horrors he'd been witness to, the losses he had endured. It was far too early to explain any of those things to Hayden without terrifying her. There was no way to say " _this job will break the people you love if you're not careful."_ Besides, that wasn't what she needed to hear.

What she needed was to know it was possible to handle such a heavy thing. "This team has seen some difficult things," Bianca told her. "But they are a team. They are a family, and they take care of each other. You'll have them to help you out. You'll have him. I'm sure he would be happy to explain what he needs or how something works, if that means keeping you in his life."

"From the way he looks at you, I'd say it's pretty clear that's what he wants," chimed in Will. Hayden smiled, stared down at her glass of wine.

True, the agents of the BAU were tattooed with scars and haunted by ghosts, but as long as Rossi could still host lavish dinner parties with a grin, as long as Spencer could still laugh with Henry, they would be okay. If ever a day came when they lost the ability to find the light, they would find a way to work through it. But until then, they would stand together. Out in the field, they were the last line of defense against the darkest of minds. They were the heroes and the saviors and the geniuses.

At home, Bianca and Will were the first line of defense against their demons. Rescuing them from nightmares, saving their faith in humanity, discovering new ways to make a smile return. As partners, they were healer and hugger and comforter. Above all, companion. There to weather the storm with them and promise that the sun would rise once more.

With the years, Bianca even found herself feeling a bit like a profiler. She could tell from the pressure he put into closing the door or the way in which he greeted her how bad a case had been. She could hear his exhaustion or disillusionment over the phone, from miles away. Knowing when to talk and when to listen, when to ask and when to hold him, it was an art. One that she didn't mind dedicating hours of practice to, if it meant knowing his heart would be a little more intact as a result.

When their partners emerged from the house, they announced it was getting late, and they ought to be leaving. One by one they took their families and left the backyard, as rain began to fall. With a white-knuckle grip and nervous silence, Spencer drove them back home, glancing warily at the rearview mirror from time to time. Whatever news the team had received, it had rattled him. It wasn't shock or anger – it was pure fear.

It wasn't until they were in the kitchen that he explained what was happening. The prison break earlier was only the beginning – thirteen convicted serial killers were now out in the open. Some wanted only to resume killing; others, like Peter Lewis, would surely be out for revenge against those who had put them away. Making every one of their BAU family members a target. It had been a long time since she'd seen him look that frightened – the last she could recall was the day Rick had held a knife to her throat.

"Are you worried they'll come after you?" she asked.

"A little. But the last time an unsub escaped from prison, it was the Reaper. George Foyet didn't just want to kill Hotch, he wanted to hurt him. So he went after Haley and Jack instead. It's not me I'm worried about it, it's _you._ I don't know what I would do if you were hurt and it was because of me."

Outside, the sound of the rain had grown louder, faint rumbles of thunder in the distance. When she took his hand, she could feel him trembling. Thirteen killers were out in the world now, thirteen monsters he'd assumed he would never have to think about again. His nightmares could roam free. Were they really laughing over dinner just earlier that night? It seemed like eons ago.

"I just want to keep you safe. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe," he said. In the back of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder if those same words were being spoken in six other houses at that exact moment. It was a small comfort to know that none of them were facing that faceless fear alone.

A true storm had stirred up in the night, a downpour of rain and a cacophony of thunder. Lightning lit up the dark in brief glimpses of white. For once, she wasn't startled by the thunderstorm. That fear was overpowered by a different terror.

The storm raged; and they slept through it, Spencer still holding tight to her hand, afraid to let go for too long.

* * *

He gets home from Paris, and tells her all about it. (she spent three days with them abroad, but had to come back for work. Mention she saw Eva and Lorenzo and their young son) She's missed him, but is happy to hear his mom is doing well. They take some time to reconnect. He mentions there's someone new joining them, Luke Alvez. Rossi wants him on the team.

The sound of her phone ringing sent her sprinting from the kitchen to answer it. Because of the time zone and her work schedule, she hadn't been able to talk to him for the better part of a week. Skype popped up, and there he was, smiling at her from half a world away.

" _Bonjour, ma petite."_

She laughed, sitting down in the bay window. " _Bonsoir, mon coeur._ Your accent is improving."

"Really?" he asked. "You think so?"

"Yes, I really do."

Five days she spent with Spencer and Diana in Paris. His mother slept through most of the flight – the only way she could deal with being up in the air for so long – while the two of them read together. In the city, she found she once again had the rare upper hand when it came to knowledge. He had statistics and historical facts, but she _knew_ Paris, the living and breathing organism it was, made up of people and places and a culture all its own.

Language also gave her an advantage. It was hard not to laugh at his frustration, when he would order something or talk to someone in French, and they would instantly switch to English. Grammar and accent gave him away. Years of practice allowed her to float near-seamlessly through conversations with native speakers while he looked on, half impressed, half annoyed.

There were so many places to go and to see, and Spencer had helped his mother to make a list of the ones that mattered most to her. On the third day, she let them have some time together as mother and son. She'd arranged to meet up with Aoibhegréine while in Europe, and was overjoyed to have even a few hours together. To see her friend face to face again was so much better than trading phone calls. Eva and Lorenzo had a son now, who'd recently turned one; with his father's dark hair and his mothers untamable curls. Marco was his name, specifically chosen for its conciseness. After growing up in a house where names could be nearly twenty letters long, Eva insisted they give their child a name that was easy to pronounce.

Five days before duty called and, in a reversal of roles, she left him to return for work. An appeals court had decided to hear the case they'd been working on in Maryland, and she was needed for the trial. It was the biggest case she'd been a part of, and Bianca was determined to do a good job.

The trial had lasted six long days, with both sides giving the arguments their all. Bianca had files and files of witness statements and reports, as well as her ability to masterfully weave a story from the facts; but the defense had the reputation of the police department. There were inherent biases in the jury she would have to try to overcome. Each morning she would go for an early run to clear her head before court, and each evening she would come home, exhausted, and wishing that Spencer was there to help her through it. His steadfast encouragement was what she craved, but she made do with the advice of her friends and other lawyers at the firm.

"How did the trial go?" he asked. "You said the jury reached a verdict?"

"Yeah. They found that the Baltimore PD was not guilty of excessive force or police brutality." The trial had been highly publicized, and soon after verdict was announced that morning, it was all over the news. Tanvi had already texted to demand she come along with her and Aiden to get a drink. She knew they would reassure her in ways only those who had been in similar positions could do, but right now she just wanted to talk to Spencer. There was nobody else in the world who could make her feel better quite like him.

He frowned, and she was sorry to see his smile go. "I'm really sorry. How are you feeling?"

"Like I let down the victims and their families. I feel like I failed them," she sighed. So much hope had been riding on the case, and to see justice denied to so many people had plagued her with guilt.

"This isn't your fault," Spencer insisted. He leaned a little closer through the screen, his features slightly grainy, but his expression serious. "You gave it your all. You did the very best you could, I know you did. The jury's decision does not mean you failed."

"Then why do I feel this way?" Her cheek rested against the window, the afternoon sun warm on the glass. Cold and heavy in her heart was something like shame, a sense of regret.

"Because you care. I've seen similar things happen when unsubs go to court. We can have the strongest evidence possible, but in the end it's still up to a jury. Those families know how hard you fought for them, I'm sure of it. And they're grateful."

"How do you know that?"

There was that smile of his again. "Because I'm a profiler. It's my job to understand people." Just being able to speak with him made her feel a little bit lighter. Such a thing could never be changed by distance or borders.

Not wanting to take up all his time with talk of her trial, she asked, "How is your mom?"

"Sleeping at the moment." Turning the screen around for her to see, Bianca could make out a shock of white-blonde hair amidst dark pink bedding. The hotel room was half-lit by a lamp, evening having already come to Paris. "I think being here is really good for her. We went to _Sacré Coeur_ today – I know that's your favorite - and tomorrow she wants to go to Versailles. The best part is that she's actually remembering it all." It was clear that how delighted he was by what progress she appeared to be making. How could he not be? This was his mom, the person who had been the only constant in his life for so long. She had shaped his whole world.

"Oh, Spencer, I'm so glad to hear that."

He turned to glance at his mother for a moment, pure hope on his face, before adding, "But hey, listen. I know it's hard to lose a case, but you can't blame yourself for the outcome. You did a good thing, and you worked hard. Take care of yourself tonight. You need to rest. Maybe make some tea, read a good book, and take a hot bath?"

"I wish I could do those things with you," she said. Months had gone into planning the trip with Diana, and she had been so excited to spend quality time with them in France, going to all of the beautiful places Spencer had never been to before. There was a whole world she wanted to share with him, and she had been crestfallen at the notion of leaving so soon. After all, she wasn't sure when she would next get the chance to visit with his mother. Having to spend more time apart from him, oceans between them, only added to her despondence.

"Well," he said, looking at his watch, "I have a little more time. We could get creative." Bianca grinned, and in a matter of minutes she had Edith Piaf's _La vie en rose_ playing on her laptop, and a copy of Proust's _Du cote de chez Swann_ before her. She and Spencer each had a cup of tea, and despite the waters that kept them apart, they could still share that moment together.

When the Parisian night finally stretched long before him, she reluctantly let him go off to bed. "Good night, my love," she told him.

" _A bientôt, mon ange,"_ was his reply. See you soon, my angel. And in just three more days, she would be able to.

By the time she finally closed her laptop, it was well into the evening in Virginia, the sun starting to sink lower in the sky. Before signing off, he'd reminded her to be careful and stay safe. While the fugitive task force had managed to track down a number of the escaped convicts, many still remained at large – including Scratch. Bianca looked out their window, staring into the yard. If Peter Lewis were nearby, would she know? Would she be able to recognize him?

It seemed that his target was likely Hotch, but men like that were unpredictable. What he wanted was to hurt the members of the BAU, and if he couldn't get his hands on the team, he would try to get to them through those they loved. History told her it was possible. Her fingers found their way around the locket Spencer had gifted her last Christmas, clasping it tight.

The other members of the team had a number of people they were close to, so many potential targets. That wasn't the case with Spencer. If Mr. Scratch wanted to hurt him, who would he go after? His mother, or his wife?

She shook the thought from her head. There was no point in getting worked up over uncertainties. Still, before going to bed she pulled the curtains over the bay window, double checked all the locks, and kept her phone close on the bedside table. Just in case.

* * *

 _"You cannot love a thing without wanting to fight for it." – Gilbert K Chesterton_

* * *

 **Author's Note:  
**

 **Sorry this is such a short chapter! I've hit a bit of a writer's block, as the most recent episodes have thrown a bit of a wrench into the sections I'd written for Chapter 12. I'm still trying to decide how to go about it...**

 **Anyhow, thank you to AmberRocketts, Vendetta M, CollegeGirl2018, Connie Weasley, emmafk97, candyfreak1578, Perish Angel, and BillionsofStars for following/favoriting this story.  
I'm so grateful to dianakotori **(ah, I apologize for spoiling anything! And I think Reid has always been a little bit reckless on the job when he thinks someone else needs to be protected, but he's learned a little over the years - hopefully. Thank you so very much!), **DeliciousAudrey** (thank you! I definitely get what you mean about the figurative language. I know I can get a little carried away sometimes. As for Reid's best man speech, I may just need to write a little companion piece with all those scenes that get left out...), **and Love-Fiction-2016** (thanks!), **for leaving reviews. It means so very much to me!**

 **Hopefully I'll have an update for you before too long, but until then, have a most wonderful day!**


	43. 43) Only Us

_"Would you like to know your future? If your answer is yes, think again. Not knowing is the greatest life motivator. So enjoy, endure, survive each moment as it comes to you in sequence – a surprise." – Vera Nazarian_

* * *

On the weekends he was home, he would sleep in late. He never was a morning person, while she preferred to get up and start her day. It wasn't unusual for her to go out for an hour long run, come home, shower, and find him still fast asleep in their bed. It only became a problem when they had things to do.

On that particular morning, Bianca came upstairs from the kitchen to find he'd slept through all three alarms he'd set. Or rather, he'd pressed snooze on all of them. "Spencer, we're going to be late," she said, setting a hand on his shoulder.

"It's too early for this," he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

She shook her head, bemused. "You're the one who made these plans."

He rolled over to face her, still refusing to open his eyes, and making every effort to appear as though he was still sleeping. "Well, I've changed my mind. Just let me sleep." Even without having worked a case this week, he was exhausted. She sometimes wondered if years of exhaustion left him perpetually tired, the stress of it all catching up to him on weekend mornings.

"I'm not leaving until you get up."

"Is that so?" He opened one eye, before lunging to grab her arms and yanking her down onto the mattress with him. Before she could protest, he started tickling her, and any objections soon turned to giggles. Between gasps of laughter, she pleaded for him to stop, and he acquiesced. Leaning down, he peppered her neck with soft kisses, and she sighed, nestling into his chest. "See?" he murmured. "Why don't we just stay like this? We can lie in bed all day, just the two of us, reading and watching movies."

It was tempting, she couldn't deny that. The bed was warm and soft, and to stay there with Spencer was more than comfortable. There were only two things he ever really wanted out of his weekends, and that was to sleep in and to spend time with her. It made her happy, to know that she was enough for him. Before him, she'd never imagined she could be so enough to somebody like that. It still felt too good to be true. People sometimes talked about how the grander things in life left them in disbelief; of the awe they felt about landing their dream job or winning the lottery. It was the little things in life that most surprised her. The fact that she could spend lazy mornings being loved by him, that she could laugh with someone so easily. That was what most felt like a dream. The daily magic of having him in her life.

"As much as I'd like that, Morgan and Savannah are expecting us. Don't you want to see your godson?" At that, despite groaning, he finally sat up and agreed to get dressed. No matter how much he despised early mornings, he loved Hank.

When they reached the house, Morgan greeted them with a grin. "Well, well, Pretty Boy and the little lady. I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it." Bianca looked at Spencer, who was actively pretending not to notice. "You just missed Savannah – she got called into Bethesda last minute. Hank's still asleep, so until he wakes up, you're stuck hanging out with me."

They followed him inside to the living room, where he already had three cups of coffee waiting – a large container of sugar beside them.

"I feel like you're making fun of me, but I can't bring myself to mind," Spencer said, grabbing a mug and carefully spooning sugar into it.

Morgan laughed. "I know how you take your coffee, kid. So what's new at the office?"

"Well, we still haven't found Scratch. Anderson bet Rossi that the Los Angeles Dodgers would beat the Cubs to get into the World Series, so Rossi is now using him as a personal assistant until the Series is over. Oh, and Luke Alvez has permanently joined the team!"

Bianca knew it would be an adjustment for the team, getting used to a new member after losing someone they'd all been so close to. From what she'd heard, Alvez seemed nice. Unfortunately not everyone was ready to accept him. Leaning back in his chair, Morgan asked, "Is Garcia being nice to the new guy yet?"

"You know how she is. I think she just misses you. We all do." She couldn't help but detect a hint of longing in Spencer's voice. Despite being able to visit his friend, it still wasn't the same as seeing him every day.

"I miss you guys too. You know, I used to complain about the lack of sleep we got on the job, but that's nothing compared to having a newborn at home." As if on cue, the sound of crying came from the baby monitor on the table. Morgan sighed. "Aaaand he's up. Lemme just go get my little guy and get a bottle ready for him."

"I can do it," Spencer volunteered. "I haven't seen him in weeks." Seeing his eagerness, Morgan agreed. While Spencer hurried up the stairs, Bianca followed Morgan into the kitchen where he started to prepare a bottle for Hank.

"How's it feel to be retired?" she asked. "You know, aside from your new job as a dad."

"I have more free time than I've ever had. If I'm being honest, I do get a little stir-crazy sometimes," Morgan admitted. "I try to stay busy though."

The Morgan's house was open and light, wide windows and warm-colored walls. It felt like their family did, so alive and full of energy. When it came to renovations, Derek really did have a talent. She ran her hand over the dark granite countertop, admiring how sturdy it felt beneath her fingers. "Flipping houses, you mean?"

"In part. I've actually been thinking of starting a new project. A sort of foundation, I guess. I want to help kids who are dealing with sexual abuse. Get them to a safe place, help them to heal and find their sense of self-worth. I figure maybe I can create the sort of place I needed when I was going through that."

Her fingers stilled on the counter, and she turned to face him, eyes wide. Had she heard that right? "When – when you were going through that?"

Morgan paused, catching himself. "Oh. I thought you knew. You're easy to tell things to, you know that? Anyways, uh, when I was a kid my mentor really helped me to get my life together. His name was Carl Buford. It came at a price though. I was thirteen when he started molesting me. I really struggled with it, even considered suicide. But I got through it. I'm still here. It would've helped to have someone to confide in , and I thought maybe I could be that person for someone else."

"Morgan… I'm so sorry. I had no idea." Words failed. There wasn't anything easy to say in a situation like that.

"It's okay," he said, shrugging. "Neither did the team, until that secret got me arrested in Chicago. You know, it's funny, I was so scared to tell anybody, but once I finally did, it got a lot easier to talk about. Like sayin' it out loud took away all it's power." It reminded her of the day Spencer had called her, so determined to come over to her apartment and talk to her, and had set his greatest fears out for her to see. Grief shared was grief halved, and two people could carry a burden much better than anyone could alone.

She reached out to hug him, and he let her. Morgan was solid, a strong person, and while she'd always known his strength was much more than physical, she had never imagined just how much he'd had to carry. It was hard not to picture him as a young boy, so alone, and so scared to show anyone how deeply he was hurting.

"I'm really glad you're here," she said.

"Did I miss something?" Spencer asked. He stood in the archway, bouncing baby Hank up and down in his arms. Hank was occupied in attempting to grab fistfuls of Spencer's curly hair in his tiny hands.

"I was telling her about that foundation I've been thinking about, so I had to explain Carl Buford."

Spencer nodded knowingly. "What does Savannah think?"

"She thinks I should go for it… but I don't know." He ran a hand over the top of his head, There was hesitation in his tone, but the glint in his dark eyes was far from uncertain.

"You absolutely should!" Bianca interjected. "If money is an issue, I'd be more than happy to help you with some grant-writing."

Morgan reached out to take Hank from Spencer's arms. "You'd really do that?"

"Of course." She beamed at him, as Spencer wrapped an arm around her waist. "You're family." And he was. A brother, a friend, a protector. The BAU looked out for one another, and that didn't just mean the team. It was the extended family, children and spouses and significant others. The fierce protection between the agents was contagious. Having confidence in that trust and security was especially crucial now, with several escaped killers still on the loose.

The four of them sat in the living room, talking and reminiscing over coffee while Hank played on the living room floor. Sometimes all you needed was a good cup of coffee and good people to share it with to make the world a little brighter. Eventually, Morgan slipped back upstairs to change Hank.

"What would you do if you left the BAU?" Bianca asked.

Spencer took a long sip from his mug, mulling it over. "I'm not sure," he said. "Maybe return to academia? I could myself teaching full-time, like Blake." He paused, looked down, then added, "I'd do it, you know."

"Do what?"

"Leave the BAU." When he made eye contact with her again, his expression was serious. What had been meant as a lighthearted question had taken a very real turn. "I would leave if you asked me to. You only have to say the word."

Bianca was taken aback by his candor. They'd discussed the future in general terms before, but this felt much heavier. "Spencer, I would never ask that of you. You love your job. You love your team. I'm not asking you to give that up."

It felt strange, to be having this conversation about their future in someone else's home. Yet it felt right, seeing the juxtaposition of Morgan's life before and after. The man who had been so dedicated to his career and so invested that he hardly had time for personal connections had left the bureau to focus on his family. While at times he seemed restless, it was clear Derek was happier than he'd ever been.

"I've seen what this job can do to relationships. It's torn apart marriages and ruined childhoods, and it's gotten people killed. Hotch was never the same after he lost Haley." Spencer took her hand, his voice much softer than his grip. "You're everything to me. What we have comes before work. I would never risk that. I love you too much for that. Based on past evidence, there will be a day when it's too much, and when that day comes, you just have to ask."

Her chest tightened at the bittersweet prospect of him leaving the FBI. To give up the world he knew, the work that had brought them together once upon a time, was such a huge gesture. To say she was moved was an understatement. It was so easy to imagine a life in which he worked a safe, normal job. Waking up in the morning alongside him, knowing that the biggest danger he faced would be traffic on his way to the university, or perhaps a disgruntled student. Seeing him each evening. Never waking up in the middle of the night to the paralyzing sound of a phone ringing.

That possibility was tempting. But it wasn't the right time. She knew that someday, she would reach her limit, or maybe he would, but for now, they could make do. It never got easier, the loneliness and the fear, the regular separation and the unpredictable schedule. In her heart, she knew he wasn't ready to leave just yet, and she suspected he knew that as well.

Still, it was quite a promise.

There on that couch, she held his hand a little tighter, knowing that his tomorrows were promised to her. Likewise, her future was irrevocably intertwined with his, and that was among the most comforting truths.

At the top of the stairs, Morgan leaned against the wall, smiling to himself, and decided to give them just a few more minutes together before he rejoined them.

* * *

He fiddled with the key, finally getting the door open and stepping inside. The familiar smells of home hit him, books and ink and coffee. Footsteps came from the hall, and he turned to see Bianca running towards him, a smile on her face. Reid instinctively opened his arms, and lifted her up, holding her tight.

"I missed you so much," he sighed. They'd gotten in from Los Angeles, and after the events of the day, he was exhausted. Not to mention a little shaken from the collapse of the warehouse. Had Alvez not gone in for JJ when he did, one of his closest friends might have been gone. Instead, she was alive, with only minor burns and heavier guilt.

Bianca stared at him, a line of concern between her eyebrows. "I know that tone. Did something happen?" No matter how hard he tried, it was hard to hide his fatigue and frustration from her. He was worried about JJ, especially considering she refused to talk to anyone about it on the way home. Hotch had demanded she take time off, which hadn't helped. However, she had Will. Reid trusted he would look out for her and that she would open up to him about the things she didn't feel ready to discuss with her colleagues. Sometimes you just needed someone who wasn't a profiler.

As he had Bianca, always prepared to accept the emotions he brought home with him from a case, packed away as neatly as the case files in his bag. "Nothing major," he said. "I don't need to talk about it right now. Maybe in the morning. Right now, I just really, really missed you."

"Well," she said, "in that case, why don't you go change? There are leftover pancakes in the fridge, and nothing quite beats breakfast at 3 AM." As behavioral analysts, they often liked to think they understood the human mind best, but it never ceased to amaze him, the way she sensed what he needed even before he knew himself. Reid dropped his things in their room, and by the time he came back down to the kitchen in pajamas, she had pancakes set out.

"What are you still doing up?" he asked her, grabbing a fork. Unless he texted to see if she would wait up for him, she didn't tend to stay up this late. That was what he did, getting lost in a book or in a stack of paperwork and completely forgetting the time.

"Research for work. We have some cases to prioritize." It would only be a matter of time before she started preparing for her next assignment. With the impending election, Darcy and Alam had been busy preparing for any possible fallout, as well as a number of cases they had dealing with the continuing global migrant crisis. "It's worth it for pancakes. And you."

She was right – there was something about breakfast at 3 AM. "This reminds me of all those morning dates we used to have, back when we were dating," he said. So many early hours spent in little cafes or crowded diners, smiling at each other from across a table.

"How have we been married for two years already? Do you remember when I convinced you to come with me to the gala my job was putting on?"

"Eidetic memory," he laughed. "I could never forget that." He'd been so worried about embarrassing her that night, but when she was in his arms, everyone else in the room disappeared. There was only the two of them, and with the rest of the world, his fears too melted away. Reid stood suddenly, pulling out his phone. She quirked an eyebrow, curious, as he thumbed through what few songs he had stored on it. He wasn't one for technology, but he had to admit it could be useful.

Ah, there it was. Upon pressing play, music filled the living room and a knowing smile spread across her face. "Our wedding song."

He nodded, taking her hand. "May I have this dance?" Bianca laughed as he pulled her closer, swaying in slow circles across the floor. Funny how the same song could play in two drastically different situations, and so much could remain the same. Her heart beating against his chest, as he tried not to trip over his feet. Reid looked down at her, wanting to commit this to memory just as much as he had their first dance. The dim glow of the lamplight on her hair, the gentle smile on her face. Her running shorts and the oversized Caltech shirt she'd long since stolen from him.

Catching him staring, she asked, "What is it?"

"I was just thinking about the day we got married, and how you manage to look just as beautiful in a wedding dress as you do in pajamas at 4 in the morning."

"I do not," she laughed.

He twirled her in a circle. "You absolutely do. You know I'm a terrible liar. Therefore, it must be true."

She gazed up at him, and he wondered how one simple look could convey so much love. Those brown eyes, filled with the same inviting warmth they'd held when they first met. "What on earth did I do to deserve you?"

"I ask myself that every day," he replied. As the song slowly faded out, they stood there like that in the living room, arms intertwined, listening to the melody of inhales and exhales. "The unsub, he was kidnapping siblings and burning them alive. Always brunettes, always an older sister and a younger brother."

Reid could feel her body tense, perking up at attention when he finally spoke about the case. Could she tell already what was bothering him about this case? He tried to keep his voice casual as he continued. "He'd tried to kill his own older sister before, twice. When we finally caught him, he had a pair of siblings and his own sister trapped in a burning warehouse. JJ and Alvez went in to save them, and the unsub's sister couldn't walk out, so they got her out, along with the little boy. JJ was still trying to free the boy's sister when there was a gas explosion. Luckily Alvez got JJ out, but the boy's sister didn't make it."

"How's JJ?"

"Pretty shook up. She didn't really want to talk about it, but she feels like it's her fault. Maybe if she'd gotten the boy's sister first, maybe if they had waited to get the unsub's sister out later, maybe they could've all been rescued. But JJ is a mother. My guess is she saved the brother first because the boy reminded her of her own sons. I overheard one of the local officers asking if it was really right to rescue the woman before the children, since her brother was the unsub and the siblings were innocent, and so I asked myself what I would've done in that situation."

"And?"

He sighed. "And I know I couldn't have left the unsub's sister in there. She was innocent too. Her brother's crimes weren't her fault. Whether it was right or wrong, in a split second JJ made a decision based on instinct. The boy reminded her of Henry and Michael. The unsub's sister would've reminded me of you. Because I know that if it were you, if your brother had… had…" He choked in the words, unable to get them out. They were supposed to remain unbiased, not letting their personal lives color their choices in the field, but in situations like that it was nearly impossible not to. They were only human after all. They had people they loved, people they wanted to protect, naturally they would make certain connections. Was that wrong? Did that place the guilt on them? Logically, he knew the answer was no, but reason wouldn't prevent them from lying awake wondering if it was their fault.

Just as they couldn't stop the nightmares from stealing their sleep, when their minds played tricks and rewrote history. Visions of past cases would return, only for the victims to be replaced by their own friends and family, doubling the pain. There were too many similarities in the dynamic this time, and he didn't want to think back to that case in Columbus.

Bianca brought her hand up to stroke his cheek. "No, Spencer. It's okay. It's not your fault. And I'm here. I'm right here, okay? I'm here, and Rick is in prison, and I'm not going anywhere. What do you need right now?"

"Just a distraction. Anything to take my mind off of it." To erase the guilt, shame, fear, worry, doubt-

She kissed him briefly, and for that second his thoughts went quiet. He kissed her back, hard, desperate for the relief she provided him. Reid let his hands wander further down her back, and she pulled him closer.

"Is this okay?" she asked.

"Yes," he breathed, trailing kisses down her neck. "This is more than okay." Every touch from her quieted his mind, and he welcomed the silence. Concentrated on the cool caress of her fingers beneath the hem of his shirt, the taste of chamomile on her tongue. The haunting smell of ash was replaced with the familiar smell of lavender and rain, and the scent of paper and ink that permeated their living room. Everything here kept him anchored here, he relied upon the physical sensations to push away the ghosts of the past as he pulled her down to the sofa with him, her fingers already undoing his tie and the buttons of his cardigan.

Tangled up in her, the rest of the world washed away. There was no space for shame. Strange, that something so passionate could make him feel such peace. Of all the decisions he'd ever made, a great many were capable of keeping him awake, making him wonder if he'd chosen correctly. When it came to her though, there was never any doubt.

* * *

Autumn had painted the leaves of the park brilliant shades of red and gold, and it was there that she'd decided to work for the day. After hours of non-stop review, she'd decided it was necessary to get out of the house, and Spencer had followed her, armed with a stack of books to keep him busy, occasionally pausing in the middle of one to ask her something or start a brief conversation.

"You're doing that thing again," he said, after she'd mumbled non-answers to his questions and isolated herself on the end of the bench.

She looked up from her legal pad, eyebrows raised. "Doing what thing?"

"Distancing yourself. Now, I know I do that when I'm mad, and I'm well aware of my tendency towards passive-aggressiveness, but when you're upset about something, you do the same thing. You pull away, like you need to give the rest of the world space from you. You try to retreat. That's what your doing now – you've been doing it since Thursday. So what's got you so worried?" he asked. The genuine concern in his voice made it hard to be annoyed with him.

"Are you trying to profile me, Dr. Reid?"

He inched closer to her, legs crossed, his eyes soft. Even when trying to get information from her, he managed to make her feel safe, and she decided she'd never want to be opposite him in an interrogation. One look from him and she would confess everything. "I'm not speaking as a profiler. I'm speaking as your husband. I've been married to you for two years. I notice things."

Of course he did. It felt like so much more than two years. He knew her heart more intimately than anyone else did, and he let her see sides of him that he hid away from the rest of the world. A love like theirs was built on trust and understanding, but there were still times when she found it hard to put what she felt into words. It would have been easy for him to try and profile the answer from her, but he didn't do that. He asked her, wanting to hear her words and see things through her eyes.

"It's just this case. We're consulting on a case to bring charges against Boko Haram for the Chibok kidnappings. Two-hundred and nineteen girls are still missing. It's just… I feel like we're going in circles. We trade Wilson Okello for Boko Haram, Hitler for Stalin, Kim Jong-Un for Kim Jong-Il. It never ends. Sometimes I just wonder if what I'm doing is really helping."

"I understand," he said softly. "My team puts away one killer, and the next week another takes his place. It feels like there's more of them each day. But you are still making a difference."

"I know, but… it's different. The BAU goes after individuals, and you know that after they're convicted the world will be safer without them in it. We go after dictators and whole governments knowing nothing might change, and hoping that if it does that someone worse doesn't take their place. I became a human rights lawyer because I wanted to do good, but sometimes governments just want to use us to get around their own violations. Spencer, I don't want to be the bad guy. And I'm afraid one day I might be."

That was what had been weighing so heavily on her heart. It was so easy for people in her field to became jaded and disillusioned, or to be misled by a politician who covered up their intentions with empty promises. She didn't want to make it easier for governments to take advantage of their people, or to allow crimes against humanity to slip by without notice. The world just felt so big, and she felt so small. Constantly she wondered if she was doing enough.

"Hey. Look at me." Spencer took her hands, held them up, and spread his palms so that all their fingers were aligned. Centering her focus, keeping her grounded when she was at risk of becoming lost in her own thoughts. "You cannot possibly hold the whole world in your hands. But that's not your job, okay?" He shifted his hands to interlace their fingers now, and squeezed tight, his skin warm against hers. "Your hands are good for many things. You write beautiful words, you comfort people, and you are an excellent hand-holder."

At that, she gave a slight smile. The way he gazed at her so tenderly made the fall air feel like summer, and made everything feel more present. "But you can't carry everyone's sadnesses in your arms. You're not responsible for that. What you do matters, and the weight of that job is heavy enough. If it gets hard, talk to me, and we'll carry that burden together. But I know you." Lightly, he pressed his lips to her knuckles. "And you could never be the bad guy. Okay? That's never, ever going to happen. I promise you."

He closed the distance between them on the bench, wrapping her in his arms, and she let him hold her. It was an old habit of hers, to create distance when something had rattled her deeply. Moments like this made her wonder why, when it clearly felt so much better to be close instead. What she needed wasn't space, it was connection. He knew that. So that's what he did – moved in when she tried to push away, kept her company when she buried herself in work all alone. Offering his arms to keep her safe from her own fears. She leaned into him, the thick fabric of his sweater soft on her cheek. Though he didn't look it, those arms of his were strong, strong enough to make her feel brave when she needed it most.

"How is it that two people who chase down monsters for a living ended up together?" he asked. She'd wondered it often herself. Their jobs demanded so much of them, and yet somehow they managed to protect each other from losing themselves completely. Perhaps it was what they had in common, an unusual blend of courage and compassion. They understood each other, and when they didn't understand, they listened until they could begin to.

"I know you're inclined to think otherwise, but I have to believe that some sort of higher power – call it God, fate, the universe, statistics-" they held different beliefs when it came to the great unknown, but he'd always respected her faith, just as she respected his trust in science "- brought us together. I think they knew we'd need each other."

He smiled. "Well, I'm not qualified to question the workings of any of those powers. Whatever it is, I'm grateful."

Grateful. It seemed as good a word as any to her. No matter what else the universe threw her way, no matter what else was lost or found or hoped for along the way, she would always be grateful for what was either the happiest of accidents or the most wonderful of fates.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Wow, it's been a while! Hello everyone! Sorry it's taken me so long to update, but here's a longer chapter for you. I've missed having the time to write as much as I used to, and I can't thank you all enough for being so patient with me and for continuing to read this story.**

 **Thanks to niki jinx, wickedgrl123, sparkle-dinosaur, monesTS, lylooo99, and BubblyFirefly47 for following/favoriting this fic!**

 **As always, I'm grateful to tannerose5** (indeed. It looks like Jack has already been one of Scratch's targets, so hopefully the Jareau boys and Hank will be okay until the season finale!), **dianakotori** (yes, I apologize for the length haha! But I really do love trying to include those viewpoints that we don't get to see in the show. I'm hoping that by the time the finale happens I'll have an idea for how to handle it haha! Thank you for continuing to support this story and for always giving such great feedback!), **Love-Fiction-2016** (thanks!), **Guest** (haha, that does seem to be how foreshadowing tends to work, doesn't it? At least on this show!), **and** **DeliciousAudrey** (thank you! And sorry to leave you hanging for a month, haha!) **for leaving reviews. Your feedback means the world to me and is always deeply appreciated!**

 **All the best to you, my dear readers, and I'll see you (hopefully) soon!**


	44. 44) Subtraction

They were both in great need of a day off. Stress and responsibilities had them both working late nights and early mornings, most of their free time spent looking over extra files and papers, or simply trying to catch up on sleep. The previous weekend was supposed to be a break, as they'd attended the wedding of Ivy and Jess, who'd finally decided to get married after a three year long engagement. However, taking that much time away from their work had only managed to increase the pressure they felt as they scrambled to keep up with their respective workloads.

That Saturday was supposed to be a break, with plans made to join the BAU at one of Rossi's dinner parties, which had fallen through when Joy and Kai came to surprise him in DC on Friday. Instead, Bianca made a reservation for them at an upscale Indian restaurant in the District, which was cancelled when she fell ill that day. She suspected it was merely the result of fatigue, but Spencer insisted they she stay home and rest. That in itself was a chance to relax, the two of them watching the _Harry_ Potter films in bed together, despite her protestations that she didn't want to get him sick as well.

Nevertheless, she was delighted on Sunday when he suggested they go to visit the Phillips Collection, a museum they hadn't been to in quite some time. They spent the afternoon browsing sculptures and classics and abstract paintings, and everything in-between.

"Keep your eyes on the floor until we reach the bench," she instructed him, as they entered a room in the Goh Annex. Step by careful step they made their way to the center of the room, until finally the wooden edge of the bench came into view. Eyes still cast on the ground, they took a seat, and she promptly turned around so that they were facing in the opposite direction. "Now look up. And tell me what you see."

It was a game they played sometimes at art galleries. They would face apart, each looking at a different piece of art, and describe it to the other. Often times Spencer would be able to guess based on her descriptions, his eidetic memory triumphing over her knowledge of art. She loved to listen to his words, that soft voice of his painting a new image in her mind of the beautiful things before him.

Spencer shifted so that they his left shoulder lined up with her right. "Colors. Soft lines of colors coming together to create an image. The brushstrokes are wide and gentle." As he spoke, he let his fingers brush across her hand, moving in a steady rhythm from her thumb to her pinkie. She closed her eyes, letting the painting form from his words. "There's a room, and the world outside is blue, as are the walls. There are so many different shades of blue, and in the center there's a bed – perhaps a couch – made up of pinks and reds. It stands out. There are two girls, one made of cooler colors, hues that almost let her fade into the background with the walls. Her hair is done up, and she looks on at the other girl, who is more like the pink furniture her – friend? Her sister?"

"What do you think?"

"Sisters," he decided, after a moment of consideration. "The second girl is more like the furniture her sister leans on. Orange hair, red lips, and an expression of ease her sister just doesn't have. Her sister wears envy instead. It feels so intimate. Like I've stumbled into someone else's family."

"What does it make you feel?" she asked.

A physical answer came before a verbal one. His hand grabbed hers, a firm hold, his thumb stroking back and forth. "Not like this," he clarified. "More like this." The pressure decreased, until the palm of his hand was barely ghosting over her skin. "Like longing." She shivered. "Your turn."

Bianca studied the image before her, smiling at the familiar scene before her. "It's lively and in vivid color, a scene of many people together, all of them laughing and smiling. They're happy just to be together. It's rich in the way mid-summer is, or maybe late spring. The brushstrokes are mostly short and loose." Taking a cue from his own description, she let her fingers move across the back of his hand in a similar motion, imagining each touch to paint a clearer image in his mind. Perhaps it defeated the purpose of describing something in words, but she didn't mind breaking the rules this time. "In the background, it's more like oblong dots, different splotches of color coming together to give a sense of the what lies beyond the happy scene."

Now she moved up towards his wrist and forearm, her fingertips dancing across his skin the way he'd taught her to play a piano. "There are too many people to describe, but most of them are crowded in the right corner of the painting. It's where the most life seems to be happening. To the left, there are boats and waves in the distance. It's peaceful in the background, much calmer than what's taking place among those at the party. I feel a little like an outsider, looking at them. I want to scan their faces for one I recognize, but they're all strangers to me."

"That's how I feel at every party," he laughed. They turned to see the paintings described to them respectively, and she found herself staring at Berthe Morisot's _Two Girls._ It was a painting she hadn't often paid attention to at the Collection, but seeing it through Spencer's eyes shed a new light on the impressionist piece. As though she was seeing it for the first time, noticing so many small details that had been previously overlooked.

"I thought that was Renoir!" said Spencer beside her. " _Luncheon at the Boating Party_. I've always loved this one." Without warning, he turned to put an arm around her, pulling her in to press his lips to hers. She could feel him smile into the kiss, and she couldn't help but do the same. In the midst of their busy lives, these were moments she missed. Spontaneous dates to museums and libraries, soft kisses without a care, laughter that only they understood.

When was the last time they had felt so carefree? Their days had been marred by the looming threat of Scratch, and by his mother's illness. There were worries they had to tend to, burdens that weighed them down. She hoped there would never come a day when she was too frazzled to notice all the little things she loved so much about him; about their life together.

"I've always been a little jealous of artists," he admitted, when they pulled apart. "To be able to create something out of nothing, and make other people _feel_ something completely new. It's incredible."

"You draw," she offered, thinking of the tiny pencil sketches that showed up from time to time in his notes, or on a post-it stuck to their wall. He claimed it wasn't the same, that his doodles came from boredom or necessity, not from an inherent desire to make something. "What about the piano? Music is an art."

She stood and held out her hand, which he gladly accepted. Through the halls of the galleries they wandered, pausing to examine different pieces with care. "I suppose," he agreed. "But I just play what other people have created. Although, I did try to write you a song once."

"What? Really?" This revelation was more surprising than the room they'd wandered into, filled with wire sculptures bent into oddly lifelike human silhouettes. "You've never played it for me!"

"That's because I didn't think it was very good," he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. A faint hue of red had crept into his complexion. "I don't know if I even remember it."

Bianca gave him a pointed look, eyebrows raised. "Dr. Spencer Reid doesn't _remember_ something? I don't believe that for a minute, my love. You have to play it for me. I let you read my poems all the time. All I ask is this one song in return."

He sighed, defeated. "Alright. I'll play it tonight, okay?"

"Okay." She flashed him a smile as they continued through the galleries. The tips of his fingers still brushed over her skin, painting pictures she couldn't see across the back of her hand. Soothing. Familiar. When an artist first discovered the way it felt to be touched so lovingly, did it change the way they looked at art? Did the stroke of a brush suddenly seem so much more important, when compared to the sensation of two hands intertwined? Did a sculptor chisel masterpieces from marble with as much care as they held their lover?

They sat together in the Rothko room, surrounded by large, colorful prints on all sides. The sheer boldness was overwhelming, such vibrant and inflexible shapes. "Spencer?" she asked. "Do you ever get this feeling that everything is about to change? And there's nothing you can do to stop it?"

When he looked at her, she could feel him studying her expression meticulously. She was a book he was trying to decide how to read, and more importantly what to read into. "I do," he answered finally. "All the time, I do. And I hate change. But I know it's necessary."

"The unknown is terrifying," she said. Staring into those canvases, she felt a sense of urgency. A need to seize every possible moment before the world turned upside down. What it was she couldn't quite name, but it clung to her as surely as any premonition had.

"Whatever happens," he murmured, "we'll face it together." She forced herself to shuffle off the sense of foreboding. They had more than enough time to fret over what was to come. For now, she didn't want to be a lawyer or the wife of an FBI agent, or the daughter of a broken family. All she wanted was to be a woman, sitting beside the man she loved, admiring paintings in a shiny art gallery. No expectations. No responsibilities.

For just one moment longer.

* * *

The list of people he'd loved and lost kept getting longer. Goodbye was something he thought would get easier with time, but he found that each stung in its own way. Every wound was as unique as the person who'd previously occupied that spot in his heart. In fourteen years, he had said goodbye to seven agents. After so many partings, he was hesitant to form connections with new additions, fearing they would be only temporary. However, the most recent goodbye had been to the most constant colleague.

Hotch was gone.

His fate was better than most. Still alive, unlike Gideon. More sane than Elle was when she left. He still had Jack, and Reid knew that as long as they were together, they would be all right. It would be weeks before he truly processed the fact that – at least until they caught Scratch - never again would he speak to his friend. No letters, no phone calls, no contact. Just like that, Aaron Hotchner was erased from their lives. Only to live on in memories and hopes.

So many memories.

Reid loved the patchwork family he'd found for himself, but each time a member left, it meant there were fewer to share the burden of absences with. Only he, Garcia, and JJ remembered Elle. Rossi and Emily helped to shoulder Gideon's legacy. Garcia was the only other person who met Seaver. Tara and Adam would never know Alex or Kate. Sometimes he worried they were all falling apart, the stitches between them growing looser as distance and time led them to different places.

So many endings. So many beginnings.

Bianca was awake in bed, flipping lackadaisically through a book. "What are you reading?" he asked her. She looked up at him, beaming at him with the sort of smile that always conjures up the image of a lighthouse in his mind. Welcoming a boat back to shore, back to the safety of the harbor and far from the storm-tossed sea.

"Rimbaud," she replied. " _Elle se tourney, alerte et d'un movement vif; sur vos lèvres alors meurent les cavatines."_

In his mind, the rest of the poem came together from memory. " _Vous êtes amoreux. Lou jusqu'au moins d'août. Vous êtes amoureux. Ses sonnets vous font rire._ "

"I certainly hope so," Bianca said, grinning. She closed the book, casting it aside to the nightstand and sitting up as he fell down onto the bed beside her. "How are you doing? You said you found all the missing kids?"

"We did find the kids. But we lost someone Hotch." He was too tired to dress it up or try to hide it. What he needed was to get out what he felt, and nobody was better at listening to him than she was.

"What? What do you mean?"

"He's okay," Reid interjected quickly. "I mean, he's alive. And he's safe. But he had to leave. To, uh, to go into the program. Scratch, he started targeting Jack and Hotch decided he couldn't afford to take risks this time. So for all intents and purposes, they're gone. But they're together, which is good."

She rubbed his hand, her eyebrows knit together in concern. "How are you doing?" she asked. The smile on her face had turned to a tight-lipped frown, and he knew that it was more than just worry about him. Over the years, she'd come to greatly care for Hotch, and from the dance he'd been apart of at their wedding, to ensuring that Reid didn't lose his job after his relapse, his place in their little family was reinforced. To say goodbye wouldn't be easy for any of them.

"I'm… I'm trying to be strong. You know, it was easier out in the field when I could try to compartmentalize and just focus on finding those kids. People are going to come and go from my life, I realize that, and I can't let it hinder my work. If I keep putting up walls, I'll never get anywhere." That much he'd learned. Time after time, she worked to tear down those walls, and he had realized it felt so much better to just let her in. "I can't afford to let myself keep falling apart."

"But you are allowed to let yourself mourn what you've lost. Hotch was your friend – and your mentor – for fourteen years," she said. There were spaces in which he'd given himself permission to grieve. It was okay to cry when he was alone in a hotel room, if one of his colleagues was telling him the sort of thing he desperately needed to here, and if he was alone in the quiet. The best place to let out all that he'd bottled up inside was in her arms. In the past, opening up was the sensation of ripping off a bandage or pulling out teeth. It hurt to give a part of himself. It wasn't painful anymore. It was a weight tumbling off his shoulders, his lungs finally remembering how to breathe again.

"Maybe it's best not to have children in our line of work. All too often they end up in danger. I used to think I could be a parent and a profiler, but now – now I just don't know if it's possible." JJ managed it, but at times like this, he was grateful that he didn't have a child who could be targeted. To lose a child would hurt far too much. Bianca was clearly startled by his declaration, but to his relief she didn't press him on the issue.

For a few hours, they lay together, his fingertips lazily tracing over her collarbone, her arms, as he rambled on about Hotch. The man who had been the team dad, holding them all together and pushing them to be better agents and better people. The one who had deciphered his message when he was trapped in a shack, rescuing him as he knelt to dig his own grave.

They talked until he could smile a little bit, recalling all of the many good memories they'd shared. Hundreds of inside jokes, karaoke at the Benjamin, firearms lessons, and first bumps. Wherever Aaron and Jack Hotchner were, he hoped they would be happy, their lives long and full of so many more shining, cheerful moments. No more monsters. No more nightmares. The Hotchner family had had enough tragedy for both their lifetimes.

It was late, the sky dotted with stars and the room dim, when his voice traveled through the dark. "Do you remember," he asked, "what I said after Gideon died?" His mind had wandered from Hotch to Gideon; two mentors who had both disappeared without a proper goodbye. Gideon's was so much more final.

Bianca found his hand, holding tight to it. "About the empty space?"

"Yeah. And Rossi said that someday I would find something to fill it, but… how am I supposed to find something like that?"

Gideon had been his mentor, his friend, his colleague, and a father-figure to him. Like a professor and student, father and son. Sometimes he wondered if he had been closer in those last years than his son Stephen had been to him. It seemed entirely possible. The two were quite similar, and thick as thieves. Gideon played chess with him, gave him elaborate gifts on his birthday, plucked him from the Academy, and believed in him. Always, he believed in Reid. And Reid had always trusted him.

"I know it's not the same, but for years there was this place in my heart that felt empty, because I didn't really have a close family or a happy home life. And I wanted that. I thought that feeling would never go away, because I would never be able to change those circumstances." The words trembled as they came from her lips, quiet confessions meant only for him. "Then I found you, and suddenly there was this person who loved me unconditionally, and who let me do the same for them. I had never imagined that emptiness would ever be filled, but now I have people that I can call family, and a place that I can call home. Maybe that thing will be unexpected, but I have to believe that someday, you'll find it."

"What if I don't want to find it though?"

In the cover of night, she reached through the shadows to brush his hair from his face, run her fingers down his cheek. He sighed, letting her touch soothe him. "Finding something to make life whole again, isn't the same as forgetting."

He had heard words like that once before, in a short lecture from Hotch years ago. But this was so unlike anything he'd felt before. As a child that hole created by his father's absence had been filled by Gideon, who played the role of parent and teacher alike for him. Slowly that hollow space was carved out again, beginning with the day he found that letter in the cabin, until there was nothing left.

How was he supposed to fill that gap? Hotch was gone now too. There was nobody else who could be like that for him again, practically making him into the person he now was, no other person who could fill that role of _father_ and _friend_.

* * *

She returned from the office with a heavy heart. The drive home felt endless, the walk from driveway to door miles long. It was all she could do to hold herself together until she was safe, until she was alone. Once inside, she collapsed on the couch, curling her arms around her knees as she imploded, unable to hold the tears back any longer.

It wasn't possible. It had to be a mistake. There was just no way it could be true. How could she have let this happen? They had always been so careful. She had always been _so_ careful.

But just once, just once she hadn't.

It couldn't be true. But her brain insisted it was, knew that what she had been told was correct. There was no way around it, no way to pretend this wasn't happening.

The house felt so big, so empty and overwhelming. All that space, but nowhere to hide.

What was she going to do? The question was almost rhetorical, as there was a miniscule number of options, and none were particularly appealing. There was only one thing she could do.

But what about _him_? What was he going to think? God, how was she going to tell him? And what was he going to say? Guilt, blame, fear; all possible reactions. Once, she would have been able to say exactly how he would react to this, but that was before. Before the goodbyes, before the gaps, before the storm and its aftermath. Now, their universe hung in uncertainty, waiting to be rocked by another revelation.

Time could not be reversed. Too late for changes, for regrets.

Her phone kept buzzing, insistent with messages and voicemails. All from him, no doubt. She should have picked it up, should have answered him. Answered just one call. After all, this involved him too. Didn't he deserve to know? How to deliver the news, she didn't know. Each time she attempted to speak, nothing came out. Only air. Only fear.

What if he was angry? What if he didn't want this? _Did_ he want this?

They weren't ready. She wasn't ready. How could anyone ever possible be ready for something like this?

Sooner or later, he was going to come home. Sooner or later, he was going to find out.

Maybe it would've been easier, had he been there. Had he been by her side when she found out, when they told her exactly what was going on. Or maybe not. Maybe it was better this way, to give herself time to prepare, time to process.

Would she ever be ready?

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **It's a bit on the shorter side, I know. Forgive me.**

 **The poem used here is by Arthur Rimbaud ( _Roman_ in French, _Novel_ in English). The lines used roughly translate to " _She turns abruptly and in a lively way... - the catavinas die on your lips"_ and _"You are in love. Occupied until the month of August. You are in love - her sonnets make you laugh._ " The line traditionally concludes " _Your sonnets make her laugh_ " but it was more applicable to their relationship the other way around.**

 **Thank you to Starwarslover4life, amroberts17, Shayde Revelle, ferretgirl101, The Spade Queen, Books2Read, alexae15, and Simone 140089 for following/favoriting this story!**

 **And thank you to tannerose5** (oh, thank you! I'm so glad you think so! I have to agree with you there - I have no idea how they're going to make this work), **dianakotori** (why thank you! I'm glad to have you along for the ride, haha. I'm starting to get an idea of how to put all this together, and I'm excited to see how it turns out!), **Love-fiction-2017** ( :D ), **and One Smart Waffle** (hello and welcome! Thank you for reading, I'm so glad you've enjoyed this story! As for the events of Season 12, we shall see, haha) **for the reviews. I appreciate each and every bit of feedback you leave for me, and I always love hearing from you!  
**

 **All the best to each of you.**


	45. 45) Addition

Reid could hardly wait to return home after two weeks of tracking a serial killer through the backwoods of Alabama. All of the horrors could be replaced with a few good books, a cup of coffee, and time with the person he loved most. Bianca. Fourteen days felt like an eternity to be without her, without her stories and her hugs and the ability to fall asleep next to her. She wasn't answering her phone though, and he figured she must've been busy. It was unusual though, for her to go two days without answering his calls.

There was a light on in the living room when he finally pulled into the driveway, and he jogged up the sidewalk to let himself in. Most days he could find her reading in one of the overstuffed armchairs or lounging on the sofa while she wrote, but both chairs were empty. "Bianca?" he called. There was no answer, but he could make out a muffled sound from the bedroom.

He followed it, and discovered her crumpled up on the bed, sniffling. At the sound of his approach, she looked up, panic written on her face. Typically he would go to her, comfort her, but when he tried to she jumped down from the bed and backed towards the corner of the room, near the window and the bookshelves. "Are you okay?" he asked. What was happening? Had someone hurt her?

She opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out beyond a whimper.

"B," he said slowly, speaking to her the way he would a frightened victim. "What's going on?"

Her entire body was shaking as she wrapped her arms around herself. "I – I can't – I…" On one hand he count the occasions he'd seen her in a state like this, inconsolable and unable to speak. There were only a few things that scared her so; her family, his relapse, when she thought that she had messed something up beyond repair, thunderstorms. The look in her eyes now though, it was pure terror. So many people he'd profiled in the past, but right now, when it mattered most, he didn't understand a thing.

"Please, you can tell me. Bianca, you know you can tell me anything. Let me help you. What's wrong?" He took half a step forward, but she took half a step back, wringing her hands together frantically, and she was crying now. Why was she crying? What had happened to make her so afraid? Was it something _he_ did? Something he said? Reid was growing more anxious with every second that passed, his wife standing in front of him and crying, and he had no clue why.

"I promise, whatever it is, it's going to be okay. Bianca, please. I love you."

Those words were supposed to be a protective charm, but the spell they cast only seemed to make matters worse. She flinched away and shook her head back and forth, back and forth. There was something she was trying to deny, trying to ignore, but for all his knowledge he couldn't explain it.

Through a mess of tears and tremors, she tried to compose herself enough to speak, her words choppy and strained between sobs. "I – I'm s-sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

She dug her teeth into her bottom lip, punishing herself for the words that she couldn't manage to speak, and he wanted to go to her and kiss her just to make it all stop. "Wh-when you were g-gone, I… I went to - to the d-doctor."

Was she sick? If she was crying so hard, if she was so shaken up, it had to be bad. He ran over a list of ailments in his head. Something worse than the flu, certainly. Something genetic? Was it something with her mental health? She hadn't shown any indication she was feeling depressed, and as far as he knew she had been eating. Her weight seemed normal, she wasn't over-exercising. What had happened in the fourteen days since he'd seen her last?

"And I… I…" Her body was wracked by another series of sobs, and he could feel his own lip quivering, his chest aching. He hated seeing her like this. It hurt him, and he it was painfully obvious why unsubs targeted their families – watching someone you loved in pain, and being powerless to fix it was a million times worse than any beating one could personally endure. It was as though your heart was more tied to the people you held within it than the body it was charged with keeping alive.

It took all of his resolve to stay rooted to the floor, not to run to her, not to scare her off. He waited, bracing himself for whatever diagnosis, whatever news was to follow.

"I… I, um…" Oh god, he wasn't ready. "I…" She couldn't seem to get the words out and oh god, he couldn't lose her. Not her too. Forcing herself finally to look at him, she tried to find her voice one more time. _Oh god_ , please not her too. "I – I'm p-pregn…" That was all she could manage before she burst into tears again.

But that was all he needed to hear.

Oh.

 _God_.

He swore that right then the earth stopped spinning as the puzzle fell together and his mouth fell open. His body reacted of its own accord, his eyes widening, his heart faltering, but it was as if his brain had short-circuited, and she was standing there by the window trembling, waiting for him to respond.

Oh god. It made sense now. Her panic, her fear, her tears. On top of all that, was she afraid that he would upset? Not trusting his ears, he tried to speak. "You – you're pregnant?"

She nodded, her shoulders raised as she tried not to sob. "I f-found out two days ago. I'm s-sorry."

"No, no. No, there's nothing you need to apologize for." He could no longer stand it. Feeling the water rise in his own eyes, he finally reached for her and she didn't run when he held her tight against him to let her know that he was _here_ and she wasn't alone and he wasn't going _anywhere_. Her fingers balled the fabric of his vest into her fists as she cried into his chest, and he pressed countless kisses to her hair and her forehead. Reid lifted her into his arms and carried her back onto the bed, where he held her in his lap.

They rocked back and forth, gently, and when she had calmed down to a degree, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I didn't know what to do. I had no idea. And when I found out, I just… Spencer, I'm so _scared_ ," she whispered, the word tinged with pain. "I don't know if I can do this."

She loved kids, but she had never been certain about having any of her own. After her own childhood, he understood her hesitation. The love he had for Bianca outweighed his desire to be a parent, and he had accepted that if it wasn't something she wanted, he would be content being a godfather and an "uncle" instead.

Those words she uttered just minutes ago were supposed to be followed by joy and celebration, but he couldn't manage to feel that way yet, not when she was so distraught. "Why?"

"I don't know if I can be a good parent. What if… what if I mess up? What if I ruin their life? What if they hate me? What… what if I turn out like my mom?" They were answers he'd heard before, but even so he needed to hear them, to understand what she was feeling at that moment.

"That's not going to happen," he said, squeezing her hand.

"But how do you _know_ that?"

"Because I know _you_. I know that you are one of the most loving people on the planet. And every time I needed you, you were there, no questions asked. You keep your promises and you tell wonderful stories and no matter what, you stay. You're not like your parents were. The fact that you've thought about that shows that you're aware, that you want to be better.

"And besides," he added. "You have me. I'm not going to let that happen. We can do this together. You don't have to do any of this by yourself. I'll be here, and we'll raise them together, and just like I love you and you love me, we'll love them. That love has lasted through so many things. And _that's_ how I know."

"You – you said you didn't think you should have kids," she said quietly. "After Hotch left."

He thought back to the weeks before. "I didn't mean that. I was upset, and angry, and I didn't think having children was an option for us anyways. I didn't mean any of that, I swear to you. There is nothing I would love more than to have a baby with you. I want this. I want this for us."

She looked up at him, wide-eyed. "Nine months… that's a long time. I don't know if I can…" The physical changes, those were going to be hard for her.

"You don't have to go through that alone either. Every day, I'm going to be here for you. If I'm on a case, I'll call you. And I'll remind you how much I love you."

"But after that, I mean, a baby is a permanent thing… Spencer, everything's going to change. I can't be a mother. I don't know if I'm ready for that."

He pulled her closer. "Everything is going to change, but change isn't a bad thing. You and I, we've changed over the years. You stood by me through grief and a relapse and withdrawal. I've seen you happy and I've seen you hurting, and I've seen you scared. We got engaged, we got married, we bought a house. All of those changes, but we're still here.

"Maybe things will change, but sometimes when things change, you discover that your life had been missing something all along. I mean, I didn't realize how much I needed you until I met you. Nothing was the same after that, but I can't imagine my life without you in it." Her breathing was slowing now, her muscles relaxing. "Bianca, if you want to do this, I'm ready. I'm here to stay. And we can take it day by day, together. Always together."

So many of his friends – his family, _their_ family – were parents now. And while it was true that everything changed, it was also true that those changes brought far more joy than trouble. Hotch loved Jack more than anything, JJ always said that Henry was the best thing that had ever happened to her and Will, and despite all his previous honors Morgan claimed that "father" was the one he was most proud of.

She exhaled, all of her tension coming out in a shaky breath. "Okay then." She sounded nervous still, scared, but she know spoke with a hint of resolve. "We're going to have a baby," she said, still not certain if she believed her own words or not.

Finally, his heart gave a twinge not of pain, but of joy. The faintest suggestion of something new, something wonderful. "I'm going to be a dad," he breathed, just as incredulous. Spencer looked down at the woman in his arms, shaken and scared as she was, she still found a way to be so brave and so caring. He kissed her slowly, cherishing it as he realized that the next few months would be the last they spent with just the two of them. "And you're going to be the best mother."

* * *

Long after midnight, she had fallen asleep in his arms, clinging to him as though he was the only thing capable of keeping her anchored in the present. In the morning they talked through it a little more, when her mood was more stable.

"I think it was the night you came back from LA," she said. "When we were both so desperate for a distraction." He remembered it well. Every night they'd spent together he remembered, so long had he been memorizing the way she reacted to his every touch, learning what was good and what was even _better_. One moment though, one night had changed everything.

Everything was about to change, but it was a change he wholeheartedly welcomed. He couldn't help but think back to the case in Arizona, when JJ had assured him he'd still have kids one day. Even then he'd known. Known that was something he wanted, not just to have a child, but to have a child with her. A tiny human being who might inherit his laugh and her kindness. But then she'd revealed she didn't think she wanted children, and he'd learned to be okay with that.

This, this was something they were going to learn their way through together.

It was hard to say goodbye to her, and he lingered in their living room far longer than usual. Kissing her lips, her forehead, her stomach; wrapped his arms around her – around _them_ – until she urged him out the door, promising him that she would be okay. Bianca seemed a little steadier then, though her eyes still carried traces of worry.

The team was sitting in the conference room when he came hurrying in. "Sorry I'm late," he said, dropping his bag on the floor. The previous night had been mostly sleepless, for the excitement had gotten the better of him, and the morning had spent by her side. "Uh, by the way, Emily, there's something I need to ask."

The unit chief turned her attention away from the tablet in front of her, waiting.

A deep breath in and then, "Would it maybe be possible for me to get some time off?"

All eyes in the room swiveled his way. Reid, asking for time off? That never happened. He wasn't deterred though, and held Emily's steady gaze. "That depends. When are planning on using those vacation days?"

He tried to maintain as straight a face as possible, though he thought his heart might burst from anticipation. At this point, he found it hard to believe the joy he felt hadn't become a visible, tangible thing. "About nine months from now." Reid said nothing else, letting the words hang in the air as the unit made sense of them. They settled over the room, wheels turning and eyebrows furrowing. Tara and Rossi exchanged a glance, Prentiss stared at him, unblinking.

It was JJ who spoke first, hesitantly, not wanting to misconstrue what he'd just said. "Wait… Spence, you said _nine_ months from now?"

"Technically, it's more like 32 weeks from now, but yeah. Something like that." Another oddity, Reid not being exactly precise with his estimates and numbers.

"Are you saying…?" The question hung unspoken, everyone afraid to say it out loud and be wrong. Reid rocked back and forth on his heels, impatient for them to confirm what he was sure they were all thinking.

Garcia finally took the bait, with wide eyes and high-pitched disbelief. "You're expecting a baby genius?"

In response, he merely grinned. The room erupted in a chorus of congratulations and a flurry of hugs, and one _"it's about time"_ from Rossi.

Alvez came into the room holding a tray of coffees he'd evidently been sent to collect from the kitchenette. "About time for what?" he asked, perplexed.

"A baby, that's what, Newbie!" Garcia said, rolling her eyes in mock annoyance. Even in the midst of pretending to be miffed at Luke, her smile was uncontainable. Alvez turned to Reid, eyes wide with excitement.

"My wife Bianca, she's pregnant," he answered. Those words were just so good to say out loud. A baby. They were going to have a baby. "I just found out last night."

"Man, that's awesome. Congrats." He pulled Reid into a quick hug. "You'll be a great dad."

So this was how it felt, to tell your family that it would soon be expanding, to know that in a few months everything was going to change, and that you wouldn't be facing those changes alone. There were people to share in your joy, to allow your happiness to be their happiness.

* * *

Two months passed in a blur. Time seemed to work differently now, it felt like more of a concept and less of a reality. Entire weeks could be mere seconds, while the hours he spent at night reassuring her when her fears got the best of her could feel like years. In those moments, she swore she heard eternity in the soothing whisper of his voice, that forever sounded precisely like that.

They'd made it through the first trimester without any trouble, and she was just beginning to show. The baby was just a small bump. "Barely the size of a fig," he'd told her, his arms wrapped around her as they lay in bed. That embrace of his was so secure, and when he spoke to her, she felt like maybe this would work out after all. Spencer was nothing like her father – or his own, for that matter. He was gentle and kind and protective. Never would he hurt her, or their child. Never would he abandon them. She wasn't in this alone.

Life moved forward. Cases piled up for both of them. Work remained busy, but they still found time for books on park benches and wandering expeditions through museum centers and libraries and coffee in the morning. Well, at least for him. She'd switched solely to herbal tea for the time being.

Late in the evening, she had just put the teakettle on when he came through the door. "Welcome home," she said, turning to find him with a grim expression in the hall. "Spencer? What is it?"

His eyebrows knit together and he wet his lips before finding his voice. "It's my mom. She's not doing well, she's… confused. And scared. I don't think the treatment is helping and her mood just keeps getting worse."

All she needed to know was contained in his strained voice, the pain in his eyes. "You need to go see her," she said. Not a question, just a statement. She leaned against the kitchen counter, arms wrapped around herself. It seemed it was too much to ask for their world to be shaken by one thing at a time. Not only were they trying to navigate the fact that they were having a child, but his mother's condition only continued to deteriorate.

With a heavy sigh, he nodded. "I'm so sorry. I know this is terrible timing, but she's my mom, and she doesn't have anyone else right now." While she didn't have a close relationship with her parents, she knew how much Diana meant to him. For so long they only had each other. "I need to ask you something. I know Houston is far away and I don't know how long I'll be gone for, but…"

Bianca straightened up, mentally preparing her case, ready to argue her point when that he couldn't heal impossible wounds alone. Instead, he surprised her by asking, "Will you come with me?"

"What?" she asked, half-stunned by his question. Most everything in their lives they took on together. He'd learned long ago that he could tell her anything, trust her with his time-scarred heart, but when it came to his mother things were different. It was too close, to painful to allow himself to voice his fears about her health and her illness.

"I can't do this alone," he told her. "And I don't want to leave you right now. I made you a promise, and I intend to keep it. I know you're busy, but I don't want to go without you." Pausing, he glanced up at her with those puppy-dog eyes she never could refuse. "Please come with me."

A bittersweet smile played at the edge of her lips. "As if you could stop me." At that, he shrugged off whatever nervous restraint had been keeping him at a distance and crossed the distance between them, throwing his arms around her and hugging her tight. Arms trembling, shoulders shaking, face buried in her neck. It took her a second to process that he was silently sobbing, and she held him gently until his breathing slowed. The whistling teakettle was forgotten, its incessant sound overwhelmed by the soft rhythm of his inhales and the feeling of his shirt against her cheek.

They were each going through one of their most difficult moments. She was becoming a parent; he was losing one. Right now, more than anything, they needed each other.

"When do we leave?"

"How soon can you get off work?" he replied.

"All I need to do is make a few phone calls. I don't have any trials coming up, and I can take casework with me. I can be packed and ready by tomorrow afternoon."

Momentarily she pulled away from him, only long enough to reach behind her and climb up onto the kitchen counter. From that vantage point she could hug him around his neck without him having to bend down. His head resting in the crook of her shoulder, she ran her hands through his hair in a slow pattern. As though the movements could somehow soothe the worry in his head. By combing through his tangled curls, she tried to help untangle the mess in his heart.

"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. It was a strange change from the roles they'd played over the last few months. She was the uncertain one and he was her unwavering encouragement. When she was sick, he was there to rub her back and bring her ginger ale, when she was scared he was ready with all the right things to say.

One world was beginning, the other seemed to be ending.

A flight was booked, the necessary phone calls were made, and they packed their bags that very night. Though he was right beside her, his mind was clearly elsewhere. Shirts and pants were folded methodically, mechanically. It wasn't until they took the suitcases downstairs that he came out of whatever meditative trance he'd been in.

Bianca curled up on the sofa, wondering if he'd found the solution he was clearly searching for. There was no right answer this time. For all her shortcomings, Diana Reid had been the best mother she could be. She stayed when his father didn't. She gave him books and stories and encouragement whenever she could. And she fought for him fiercely. How hard it had to be, to watch as someone who took care of you now needed you to take care of them. If needed, he would've moved mountains to help his mother. So many things she'd sacrificed for him, Diana loved him that much.

 _She_ wanted to love that much. What if she couldn't? Her hands came to rest on her stomach. It was still early enough that the baby felt like a distant idea. While she'd dealt with morning sickness and soreness, there were few physical signs of the baby yet. A week prior, they'd gone in to have the first ultrasound done. Dr. Molina had shown them the grainy black and white image on the screen, and suddenly there was a new heartbeat in the room. Soft and fluttering, that little proof of life.

Spencer had smiled so wide, tears in his eyes, while she struggled to find her breath. That tiny heartbeat was _theirs._ A baby, their baby. She had tried to reconcile the fact that the heart they heard belonged to a life that was growing inside her, but it still seemed so impossible. Impossible that in five months, that life would come into the world.

"Hey." Spencer sat down beside her on the sofa. Softness in his eyes, he set a hand on her thigh. "It's hard, watching my mom go through this. But that won't ever change how I feel about our baby. Neither of us had perfect families, but I want to start one with you."

"It's not that I don't want this," she told him. In the beginning she had felt much more uncertain. Slowly, she had been coming to terms with it. There was no violent opposition in her heart. If she was going to have a child, she could think of no better father than Spencer, no one else she would rather be a family with. Family didn't have to be a bad thing. They had both learned what not to do, how not to be a parent. They could be better. They _would_ be better. "I'm just scared."

"I know," he murmured. Doubts and fears of his own he had shared with her. They had plenty of worries between them, but there was a hope that they had built together. A belief that the love they had forged, tended to with the utmost care, would be enough to sustain another human being.

Love could shift tides and rattle stars. It had been enough to bring two people across oceans, to pull him back from the brink of darkness, and rewrite the loneliest chapters in her history.

"Is what we have to give enough?" she asked.

Spencer tilted his head, gazing at her in such a way that she knew he understood. That he could see what she was feeling and what she needed. He said, "I know we might not have a lot, compared to some people, but we have a cozy home and a yard and books in almost every room. We have jobs and we both have time off. We have friends and family to help us. We have each other. And we have a lot of love to give. I think that's more than enough."

Long fingers stretched out over her stomach as he placed his hand over her own. "Right now, they're the only as big as a lemon. But they can make faces and suck their thumb. They can't hear you yet, but I know they're going to love you."

When she leaned into him, she could feel his own heart beating. Three different rhythms, three different lives. In many ways, it still felt like just the two of them, but bit by bit they were making space for a new addition. Gradually turning the upstairs office into a nursery. Buying new children's books. Tomorrow, though, they would leave their space to travel the 1,408 and miles to Houston to be with his mother. It felt like only weeks ago they were boarding a plane to go to Las Vegas together for the first time, so she could finally meet Diana in person.

Would Diana even recognize her? Spencer hadn't even had the chance to tell her that they were having a baby, as he wanted to do so in person to minimize confusion. Would she remember that?

Beginnings. And endings. They would get through both together.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So here we are. After dodging questions about it for 40 plus chapters, haha, it's finally happening. Two will become three. I'm really excited to write this last "arc" of the story, and I've spent a lot of time thinking about. I debated back and forth for a while whether or not they would have a child together, but I'm happy with the direction I chose, and I'm looking forward to being able to share that with all of you. And now that Season 12 has finished, I think I finally have a solid plot plan. Wow, it was a wild ride from start to finish.**

 **Thanks to hanajx, Harry's Little Sister, CHSShortie, witheringflames, kit-kat97, wintermoon7, rebel-17, Princess Nightmare99, rebelforcauses, Izuminka1992, and brutxa for following/favoriting this story! Glad to have you with us!**

 **And I'm so grateful to ahowell1993** (indeed!), **Guest** (ahh I'm sorry! Especially when CM left on a cliff hanger as well. Sorry it took me a month to get this chapter up! And thank you!), **dianakotori** (I just HAD to end it there, y'know? Did you guess correctly? And as always, thank you!), **gossamermouse101** (oh no, don't cry! I miss Hotch and Jack as well, so I just had to give them a little nod), **LadyAmazon** (if you deny it, it isn't real, right? That's what I tell myself about exams, haha), **Rowan** (wow, thank you! This is seriously so sweet! I'm so glad you've enjoyed it, and I apologize for the lack of sleep!), **Love-Fiction-2016** (thank you!), **DeliciousAudrey** (oh no, I'm sorry! But don't worry, I have plans for how to handle this Season 12 madness. And it shouldn't be as frustrating or heartbreaking as it was to watch in the show. Pinky promise! Rimbaud is lovely though and I'm glad you caught that!), **and rebelforcauses** (oh goodness thanks! I'm so glad you like it! And haha, yes, it's taken a while but they finally are!) **for taking the time to leave a review. I appreciate your kind words so very much, and it means a great deal to me to hear from you.**

 **I'll see you all next chapter. Thank you for being so patient with me.**


	46. 46) Borderlines

Houston was, for them, a liminal space. Their world didn't exist there, but his mother was there. Life had to be put on hold to be there. And yet at the same time, the world moved forward.

For those few weeks, they lived in a hotel room. The first day Diana had been doing well, so Spencer brought her along to visit for a little while. For the briefest of moments, Bianca swore a look of confusion had appeared on the older woman's face, but it vanished just as quickly. Despite her illness, Diana was a warm person, and seeing her interact with her son, it was obvious how much they needed that time together. And when Bianca had joined them and she'd realized that her middle was much rounder, Diana's eyes had gown so wide as she looked back and forth between the two.

"Are – are you…?" She was hesitant to ask the question, worried her mind was playing tricks on her eyes again.

He couldn't contain his smile. "Yeah. We're having a baby. You're going to be a grandmother. I wanted to tell you in person." Eliminating any chance for confusion, and hoping it would help her to remember.

"A baby," she repeated. Diana had covered her mouth with her hands, looking at once awestruck and delighted. Then she'd moved to hug them both, shaking her head in gleeful disbelief before bombarding them questions they did their best to answer. Almost five months; no, they didn't know the gender; and there weren't any names they had in mind yet.

It was so good to see the both of them looking so happy. For those brief hours that afternoon, she almost forgot where they were. It felt like normalcy, just three people celebrating the upcoming addition to their family. All things remembered, all things cherished. Everything was beautiful for that short period of time.

When they reluctantly parted ways once visiting hours were over, Diana squeezed her hand. "You're going to be such a good mother, you know." She wasn't so sure about that – after all, she'd had few motherly figures to look up to in her own life. Motherhood had never crossed her mind as a possibility. Friends of hers were doing it though, Aoibhegréine and JJ. Even with her condition, Diana had tried to be the best mother she could be. Having her encouragement was enough to inspire a little confidence.

"Thank you," she said. When they left the clinic that evening, they walked back to their hotel buoyed by a newfound sense of hope. Maybe this treatment could work. Maybe she could get better. Their little family didn't feel quite so broken, and seeing the joy on Spencer's face was enough to erase any other doubts she had.

They spent the evening in a warm bath, his arms wrapped around her, while she read aloud to him from a poetry collection. It was every kind of comfort, to lie there with him, feeling the beat of his heart, his head nestled in the crook of her neck.

" _Shall we postpone our love for the weather? If we must melt, let's melt together!"_ She had just concluded Ogden Nash's _Summer Serenade_ when Spencer shifted his head slightly on her shoulder so he could speak.

"What if we named them that?" he asked. "Ogden?"

"Ogden?" she repeated, craning her neck so she could see him. He wore a lopsided grin, and she rolled her eyes, giggling. She set the book down on the edge of the bathtub. "For a moment I thought you were being serious. Can you imagine? Ogden Reid."

"Rainer Maria Reid," he suggested. "It's pretty unisex."

"Why stop at authors? Dickens has given us so many good names. Like Wackford Squeers. Or Canon Septimus Crisparkle."

He laughed, and she could feel the sound rumble through him. "Encyclopedia Brown. Major Major."

"Anathema Device."

"Albus Percival Wulferic Brian Dumbledore." At this point they were both laughing so hard, it was becoming actively difficult to get the whole name out without giggling. Even as they lay in bed later that night, their breaths slowing, one of them would whisper another name ( _"Princess Buttercup." "Jean Valjean." "Zaphod Beeblebrox,"_ ) and that would start both of them giggling all over again.

When she woke the next morning, he was already gone. It was strange, to be the one sleeping in, but more and more often she found herself feeling exhausted. Spencer had left for the clinic early in the morning to meet with his mother's doctors, and she found a voice message telling her it wasn't a good day to visit. The hope she'd held on to sank slightly.

Perhaps this treatment wasn't perfect.

Bianca busied herself with reports and case notes, sitting in a little park next to the hotel and frantically typing away. People passed by, and she wondered what their families looked like. Were they big or small? Were they perfectly put together, or cracking at the seams? Every now and then, parents would pass with a small child in a stroller, or carried in their arms, and she would watch them go. That could be them in a few months. Her hand fell to her belly, and she wondered what it would be like to hold a child in her arms. Not Michael, or Hank. But _their_ baby. They were about as big as an artichoke, Spencer had told her last weekend. She had found herself staring at the thistly green vegetable in the grocery store, trying to picture it.

Would she be ready, when it came time to meet them?

Eventually the heat sent her back to the hotel, seeking the cool relief of air conditioning. It was late afternoon when he returned to their room. The first thing she noticed was an angry red mark that had bloomed across his left cheek and the laughter had disappeared from his eyes.

"Spencer, your face! What happened?" Though he opened his mouth, he grasped for words like straws, unsuccessful in making a sound. There was only one thing that would've prompted such a reaction, and the way he half-collapsed onto the bed beside her confirmed her sinking suspicion. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"There's not much to say, really. She was upset with me and said she wanted to go home, and then she… uh. She hit me." He sniffed, blinking back tears. Crossed his arms to hold himself together. "She probably won't even remember it tomorrow."

She took his face in her hands, brushing her fingers gently over the spot made by such roughness. "I'm so sorry."

He leaned into her touch. "I don't think it's working. Or maybe she's on the placebo. But she needs something more, and I can't do enough to help her when she's here."

"Do you want her to live with us?" she asked. Sure it would be a tight fit, but they had some space, especially since the baby hadn't arrived yet.

"No, not with us. I've thought about it, but we both work and neither of us would be willing to leave our jobs at this point. Besides after what happened today… I don't know what'll happen if her memory and her schizophrenic episodes become worse. I can't have you getting hurt." He looked up at her with such sadness. His heart was tearing in two directors. "If anything happened to you, I'd never forgive myself."

Bianca settled down onto the bed next to him. "So what do we do?" This was his mother, he understood her condition best, after having taken care of her by himself for so long. She trusted him to make the right choice.

"There's – there's this woman. She has a stand near the clinic, and she's been making offers to some of us. She practices alterative medicine, mostly natural herbal remedies. If I could get mom into a center in DC, and get the medicine from Rosa, I could visit to make sure she takes it." Spencer paused, letting her process exactly what he was suggesting. It wasn't illegal – but it certainly wasn't approved of. "I know it doesn't sound good, but it's the only thing I can think of."

She was his wife. The cautious tone he used told her that if she said no, he would accept that. There was an unspoken veto power presented to her. But this was his mom. The woman who had raised him, who had been the closest thing to constant in his life for the longest time. How could she keep him from helping her?

"This woman – Rosa – where does work?"

"Matamoros. In Mexico, just over the border. I could go there before we leave and pick something up from her. I have my passport. If it was working and I needed refills, it wouldn't be to hard to get here. Fly to Houston, take a bus to Brownsville, and walk across."

He'd already thought it through. In their relationship, the child had always been the parent. Spencer had been taking care of his mother for so long, it must've been natural at that point. He couldn't give up on her. What was the difference, between having a parent and being a parent? Didn't they always reverse roles, in the end?

"You'll be careful?" she whispered. There was nobody else around to hear them, but she was afraid to speak too loud, lest her verbalization of it jinx him.

"Always."

* * *

From the doorway, he could hear her in the living room, talking to herself. Rehearsing for a trial, judging by the legal jargon. For a brief moment, he stood in the hall, letting the sound of her voice carry through the air as she paced circles in the living room. When he was no longer able to resist, he crossed the room in wide, fast strides to hug her from behind.

Bianca paused mid-sentence, laughing. "Well, welcome home." She leaned back against him, her head on his chest, as he bent down to kiss her cheek.

"God, I missed you," he sighed, nuzzling against her neck. He never tired of coming home to her, reveling in the feeling of holding her in his arms after being apart. Holding her was warmth, the comfort of a lantern in a windowsill, every bit of darkness he picked up on a case falling away. With his job, traveling was inevitable, but he hated missing all these little moments. Listening to her practice arguments for an upcoming case, or watching her as she sat in the living room scribbling frantically in one of her notebooks. Her giggles in the morning as she watched the squirrels and birds scuffle over the birdfeeder in the yard while she waited for the teakettle to boil. Even something as simple as falling asleep in the same bed felt like a luxury when the BAU caseload began to pile up.

"And you," he added, setting a hand on her growing bump. "Which reminds me, we had some time before the flight home and I bought a few things for the baby." From his bag, he withdrew several items, setting them down of the coffee table one by one. A soft green baby blanket, plush building blocks, several pairs of tiny fuzzy socks, three picture books, and a green and white quilt. They hadn't wanted to know the baby's gender beforehand, so the nursery had been decorated in gender-neutral colors. "I figured it would match the colors we had picked out for their room, and I read that green was best for encouraging concentration and focus in babies."

"I remember," she said, running her hand over the fabric of the blanket.

"I may have gone a little overboard. I don't know, I just couldn't stop thinking about you and them, and I – I'm just so excited to be a dad. There was a store near the hotel and I couldn't help myself." It was so easy to picture it, pale green walls and a little white wooden crib. Curtains around the window and pictures of different animals on the wall. A rocking chair in the corner. Green like a garden. The perfect space for their family to grow in.

Bianca tilted her head. "What prompted all this excitement? I don't usually see you this excited unless something good happened on a case."

The image of the little girl played back in his mind. "There was a child I met. Her father had been killed, and I kept her busy while JJ interviewed her mother. Maddie was her name." Maddie had been so sweet, and he couldn't help but smile, thinking of how she'd told him his hair looked like her doll's. For the short time he was with her, he'd done his best to make her laugh and keep her mind off of sadder things. There had been a time when he'd avoided working with children, never knowing what to say to them or what to do. Spending time with Jack and Henry and Michael had changed that. There was something about talking with Maddie that had made him realize that at some point he would have a child her age. Maybe even a daughter. "It just really hit me that we're not just having a baby. But a… a real human being that we're going to get to watch grow up and learn and I'm just so happy."

Happy didn't even do it justice. He felt elated, _ecstatic._ In the back of his mind, he was always aware of the fact that a baby was on the way, but it was moments like these that reminded him how very real it all was. That they would be taking care of a living, breathing, tiny person. Someone they would teach to read and talk. Someone they would have so long to love. How much love they had to give.

Reid squeezed her hand. "But how are _you_ feeling?" After all, she was the one doing all the hard work, dealing with the nausea and fatigue and pain. Most of the morning sickness and dizziness had subsided, but he knew from books and from JJ that the second trimester would have its own challenges.

"Surprisingly okay," she said. "Between the phone calls with Eva and the visits with Dr. Molina, I've been feeling better. There are still days that are hard – and of course, I wish you were here more. But I'm okay."

It was a wish he too held. More than anything he wanted to be present for her, but life seemed to keep getting in the way. What little time they had, they always made count. Movie marathons were had and trips to libraries and bookstores were made as often as possible, a chance for both of them to get out of the house. Since she'd been in good spirits that day, they had gone out together for the Women's March on Washington, donning pink hats Garcia had knitted for the BAU. When she and other lawyers from Darcy and Alam had gone to offer their services at Dulles after the travel ban had been passed, he'd tagged along to join the protest for a few nights, before getting called away on a case. It was like living in two different worlds – this warm, expanding universe that they had cultivated together in their small house, and another that forced him across the country and kept him awake at night.

Reid lifted his hand to caress her cheek. "I'm glad to hear that. You know, I just feel like no matter where my job takes me, I see you everywhere. A deer on the side of the road will make me think of Eva's nickname for you. I'll read a poem that reminds me of you. Someone will be drinking vanilla tea. And no matter what else I'm dealing with, I can't help but smile, knowing that I get to come home to you."

All those little reminders kept him going, keepsakes from this other life, souvenirs from a land that felt so distant when he was out on a case. Lately, even just seeing a mother or a baby would send his thoughts back to Virginia, to her. It was distracting, and made objectivity much more difficult, but he would take the distractions if it meant taking his mind off of the things that were darker in this life. He wanted more time in this world, their world.

Time, unfortunately, was a luxury he didn't have enough of.

"There's something else I wanted to talk to you about though. I got a call from Cassie." His mom's nurse at the DC center. Looking apprehensive, she waited for him to continue. Broaching the subject wasn't easy, but he needed to be honest with her. "She's not doing well. When I went to see her last, she threw out the medicine I'd gotten from Rosa. I'm almost out. I think I need to go back to Matamoros."

It wasn't the ideal time to leave. He wanted to be there, now more than ever. He wanted to help set up a safe, comfortable space for their child, to start preparing to be a good father. At the same time, he couldn't abandon the responsibility he felt as a son to his own mother. He had no dad to help him out here, those ties had been cut long ago. There had to be some sort of balance between having a parent, and being a parent, but balance had never been among his talents. He got invested in things a little too much, felt everything a little too deeply.

She raised a hand to her collarbone. Worried. "How long would you be gone?"

"I could leave tomorrow. Hopefully be back by the next morning. I just need enough time to get there, see Rosa, and get back."

"Is it safe?"

"I think so." They hadn't heard anything from Peter Lewis since he'd kidnapped Tara's brother, Gabriel. He was the biggest threat to the team, to all of their families. Nothing Rosa had given him was technically illegal, it just wasn't FDA approved, which meant she couldn't operate on this side of the border.

Bianca whispered, "I don't want you to leave. But I know you need to go. But be careful. And come back home, okay?"

"I will, I promise."

He was married to the woman he loved more than anything. Their baby was about the size of a banana. Their home was growing. There was simply too much at stake for him not to come home.

* * *

The world was covered in a fog. A thick haze that lifted and returned in strange patterns, disorienting him. Where was up and where was down? And where was he? Clarity came in brief flashes, as a man in a uniform explained what was going on. English. Spanish. It was all too confusing.

Who were the three people standing before him? Two men and a woman. Where was his mom? He needed to make sure she was okay.

"It's me," said the younger man. "Luke."

"Luke," he repeated. Luke. He worked with Luke Alvez. If Luke was here, the other two must have been members of his team as well. If he couldn't remember them, he was most definitely in trouble. What had happened to him? What kind of trouble had he gotten himself into? They asked him a few questions, and he tried his best to force the answers to come to mind. Rosa Medina. A doctor? That's all he could recall.

"You've been drugged."

"Yeah, but I didn't take it myself." That part felt important. Tobias Hankel was clear in his mind, as was someone else… A familiar voice, asking him to stay. Asking him not to leave.

"We're going to give you some time to come down," said the woman with the dark hair. Emily. Her name was Emily. "But there's someone else here who needs to see you." Luke, who must have left the room at some point in their conversation, reappeared with a shorter woman, the two speaking in hushed tones.

That voice… _Spencer, please, don't leave me, wake up, please!_

"Bianca," he breathed, a flood of memories washing over him. Brown eyes he would recognize anywhere. Gentle words. That was his wife, standing there with tears in her eyes.

"Spencer, oh my God." She ran to the cell bars, pressing her palms against the metal. He raised his hands to meet hers, the sensation of her skin on his providing a tiny comfort. Touching her gave him a way to ground himself, to orient himself in the maddening mind-fog.

The way her face had contorted into an expression of grief tugged at his heart. That's right – she'd been there when he overdosed, and he had promised her to never touch the stuff again.

"I'm here," she murmured. "I'm here, and we're going to get you home, okay?"

"Okay." What else was he supposed to say? He had to believe that. He had to hope for that. When Luke at the others left to work on the case, he lay back down on the bench to take a nap. As though the haze were a physical burden, his head felt too heavy and the room no longer felt very substantial. Something told him it would be much more comfortable to sleep with Bianca beside him, but those cell bars made it impossible.

It was a sleep of fuzzy dreams and memories he would have rather forgotten. Familiar nightmares. A shack. His father leaving. Weakness. Fear. Upon waking though, things felt the slightest bit clearer. At least a tad lighter. Reid sat up and stared out into the dusty hallway. Bianca sat on the floor, leaning up against the metal bars. A pen in her hand, she scribbled away in a notebook propped up on her knees. While he had vaguely noticed the curve of her abdomen earlier, it was only then that he fully processed it. She was pregnant, he remembered. With his child. How could he have forgotten?

Oh god, what had he done? Now was not the time for him to end up in prison, not when they had a baby on the way. He forced himself to get off the bench, despite the dull throbbing of the headache he had, and went to sit down on the cell floor beside her. Startled, she looked up at him. It took him by surprise to see how scared she was, eyes wide and face flushed. Her hands shaking. This was his fault; he was the one who was causing her to feel this way.

"I'm so sorry," he choked out, his voice thick. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," she whispered back. "You didn't… I know you didn't do this."

"I should never have come here." All he could remember was the desperation to help his mother, but was it worth all this? There was no proof that Rosa – Nadie – whoever she was, there was no proof her medicine would provide enough of a cure to make a difference. Was it worth it to give his mother a few extra months of clarity if it meant losing out on years of his own child's life? And the drugs – he'd just celebrated four years clean. The cravings would be back stronger than ever, and he'd broken his promise to her. "I'm sorry. I never meant for this to happen."

He reached out through the cell bars to place his hand on hers, and in that instant, her face crumpled. "Spencer, I can't do this without you. I can't go through this alone. I need you with me." With her free hand, she wiped stray tears from her eyes. She was always trying to put on a brave face. The rest of the world had always needed her to be strong, but she was more vulnerable now than she had been in years. Carrying a child was something she couldn't handle on her own, and it was his job to be by her side.

There was no way to do that from prison. Especially not in Mexico. And if he really did end up in El Diablo supermax, there was no guarantee he would make it out alive. He didn't have any words to make things better, and his head hurt too much for him to think straight, so he just sat there with her on the dusty floor, as they cried together.

Luke and Emily returned, and it wasn't long before two members of the IRT, Clara and Simmons, joined them to lend a hand. They tried to help him remember, but it was all so fuzzy. He remembered being at the borderline. He remembered Rosa, the hotel room. She really was dead, they told him. Stabbed.

The knife, he remembered the knife, and the knife had cut his hand and everything was so unclear. Why couldn't he remember? There were so many attempted cognitives, sitting in a tiny room and wondering if the person across from him thought he was guilty. He didn't want to disillusion his friends, on top of having devastated the person he loved most.

In the end, it was a fact and not a memory that had helped. In the vials of medicine was jimson weed, which grew further north or south of the borderline. How did Nadie get it? She had to have crossed over, and Garcia was able to trace her border crossings to tax forms to dual citizenship. That made Nadie an American citizen, and the FBI could claim jurisdiction. No El Diablo. No supermax in Mexico. He was headed back to the states, they all were.

Never had he been so happy to step onto that jet as he was then. That plane was safety. A fragile optimism rose in his heart. The FBI would help him, wouldn't they? And then he could go home, be with Bianca, make things right again.

As they milled about inside, waiting for take off, Emily glanced back and forth between them, then sighed. "The good news is that you're going back stateside, and Cruz made a deal allowing us to stop by the BAU once we land. Unfortunately, I have some bad news as well. The county jail has faced overcrowding – until a date can be set for his arraignment, Reid is going to be sent to the Milburn Correctional Facility."

A maximum security federal prison. Just like that, the momentary elation dissipated, and he felt his spirits crash back down to earth. Prison. He wasn't cut out for prison, he knew that.

"Since you are under investigation for murder these cuffs are going to have to stay on until you are arraigned…" Emily followed his gaze towards Bianca. "But you're not a flight risk up here." She fished a key out of her pocket and unlocked the handcuffs.

The unyielding metal had left his wrists sore, and he rubbed them once his hands were freed. "Thank you. Circulation's a wonderful thing," he said, trying to make light of the muddy mess they were in. All of this was so strange and uncomfortable. The last time he could recall feeling like such an outsider on the jet was just after the Hankel case.

"The moment there's a chance for outside witnesses, these go back on," Emily added. He nodded, then turned to Bianca and carefully wrapped her in a side-hug. All he'd wanted since the fog had lifted was to hold her close and promise her he would fix this mess. They stood like that as Rossi, Clara, and Simmons mentioned some of the legal options he could look into. That was a fight for another day. Tonight, he just wanted to spend what time he could with his team and his wife.

"You're not out of the woods yet, but I swear we won't lose you," Emily promised, as they settled into their seats on the jet.

Reid pulled Bianca into his lap and she let her head fall against his chest as he put his arms around her once more. Holding her made him feel complete, much more himself than he'd been all day. "And I'm not going to lose _you_ ," he promised, kissing the top of her head. "I swear to you I'm going to find a way out of this. I'm going to be there for you."

She just nodded, already drifting off to sleep. Not knowing when he would next be able to touch her, he held her as close as he could, trying to memorize the way she fit against him, the exact rhythm of her breathing. She must've felt it too, for she clutched the fabric of his shirt tight in her first, keeping him there.

Outside the window, the lights of Mexico began to fade, replaced with darkness. The future lay waiting ahead, lurking in the shadows, yet to be known.

* * *

 _"We don't receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us." – Marcel Proust_

* * *

 **Author's Note:  
**

 **Long time, no see! Thank you to cloudedcuriosity, Emily'sImagination, Cutiepie120048, 11tvdto11, phoenixmoon25572, TheQueen1615, MoSassy23, JuliW, frenchtoast100, Dancing Huntress, XxXprodigyXxX, TheLadyQueenB, bloodychu, Danillyria, jland13, and seefaithrun for following/favoriting this story!**

 **A big thank you to ahowell1998** (I definitely won't be following the exact plot of Season 12, but I want to retain some elements from it!), **rebelforcauses** (haha yes it finally happened! So glad this story has felt that magical lol. Thanks for making me smile!), **hfcmfan2013** (than you so much for your kind words! That really means a lot! It's so crazy to think people not only read, but re-read this story! I hope I'll continue to bring you a story worth getting excited about!), **OctoberOpal** (every time a BAU member has a child, I always think, _surely it'll be a girl this time._ But so far, it's been all boys! JLH had a son in real life, so I've always assumed that's what Kate's baby would have been), **dianakotori** (truth be told, I'm curious myself to see how this goes! I think I'm looking to find a middle ground - using the 12 plot to direct this story where I want to go, and then making it my own from there. Thank you for always leaving such encouragement!), **Love-Fiction-2016** (aw, thanks!), **One Smart Waffle** (ahaha, you readers are all so clever! I'm glad you enjoyed it!), **dvali** (I hope I'll be able to change that! It's definitely something you've made me think about, and I'm considering very carefully how I write their interactions with that in mind. Naturally there's some tension there, but I never wanted to make it feel that one is a replacement for the other), **and JuliW** (welcome, and thank you! Sorry I've made you wait so long for this chapter!) **for leaving reviews. It means the world to me to hear from you, and it gives me a chance to better understand what I'm writing right (see what I did there?) and what I need to improve upon. I love you all and hope you're well! Sorry for the prolonged hiatus, and thank you for continuing to read this story and be patient with me!**

 **I'm starting to notice that when I write in odd perspectives, it always seems to be Reid I use. I guess there's simply far more opportunities since he always seems to be getting into sticky situations. Hmm. Anyways,** **I hope you've all had the chance to see Season 12 now that it's either airing or on Netflix in most places! It was quite the wild ride. I'm planning to incorporate some canon plot lines, so there might be a bit of angst here and there, but as I've said before, I promise not to be as cruel as the actual CM writers.**


	47. 47) Flight Risk

_"Holding on is believing that there's a past; letting go is knowing that there's a future." - Daphne Rose Kingma_

* * *

Each time she saw him walk out from behind the wall that blocked the view of the cell blocks, her heart dropped a little more. Garcia sat in the hard plastic chair, clutching her bag tightly, as if its presence could somehow stabilize her shaking spirit. Reid slumped down in his chair across the desk. He looked utterly defeated. Vacant eyes, hair that was badly in need of a good wash and trim.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. "I told Tara already, it's best if everyone stays away from me right now."

And the bruises. His face was painted with various shades of yellow, purple, and blue. He had a black eye, huge bruises on either side of his jaw, and the remnants of a suture bandage barely visible from beneath his messy hair. What had happened to him?

"Nonsense," she said, feigning confidence as best she could. "You need us know more than ever. We're family, we're going to be here for you no matter what."

"You don't know what it's _like_ in here. The things I've done – the things I've seen. I feel like I'm losing my mind. I don't want you to…" Reid trailed off, quickly averting his eyes to the ground. Those unspoken words were so loud.

Garcia inched her chair a little bit closer to him, trying to focus just on him. Blocking out the sights and sounds – and smells – of the prison around them. "Not even Bianca?" At her name his lip quivered, and he blinked back tears. She braced herself, knowing it was a touchy subject, but if anything would be able to reach him right now, in the distant land he'd forced his thoughts to, it would be her.

"She came once," he replied, voice flat. "When there weren't many other visitors. I can't have them know about her. The other prisoners. I don't want them to see her, not when I know what they're thinking about her – or you, or JJ, or any of you. It's not safe. I can't trust anyone. Not even myself."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I had to, they were going to m-" Reid stopped himself, then added, "I don't want to talk about it." Oh, not her Boy Wonder. It wasn't hard to guess what had happened. Walker said his friend had been killed in front of him, something about passing drugs. Whatever it was he'd done, Garcia didn't want to hear about it. She refused to let his reaction in the absolute worst of circumstances taint her image of him. Violence, that wasn't Spencer Reid, he was good and kind and gentle. Whatever this was, it just him surviving. Staying alive, as they'd asked him to. Head down and mouth shut.

"We're going to get you through this," she promised. But the way he looked at her – no smile, no flicker of acknowledgement. Just those distant, tired eyes, unblinking. Like they both knew it was a fairy-tale falsehood she'd spoken solely to sooth him.

"Is she okay?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly. There was no need to clarify who he meant. Reid looked so on edge, and she could tell it was killing him to be trapped here when his family was elsewhere.

"Yeah. Yeah, we've all been checking in on her. Just like we do for you. Rossi brings food by so she doesn't have to worry about cooking all the time, I think he invited her over for dinner on Sunday. Tara helped her get to her last doctor's appointment."

"Thank you," he sighed, relieved. Over two weeks without seeing her or hearing her voice. Two weeks without only brief moments of contact with the any of the outside world. He was hurting. He was _hurt._ He wasn't going to last much longer in there. They had to get him out.

They had to.

Visiting hours ended after an all-too-brief span of minutes, and she found herself needing to do something with all the negative energy she felt in her heart. Something that was actively helpful, after feeling so powerless watching Reid file back into the cell block. The next door she knocked on was far more welcoming than the Correctional Facility. It swung open, and she smiled. "Hi. Can I come in?"

Bianca nodded. "Of course." She led her to the living room, sitting down on the sofa. In an awkward silence she shifted before asking, "How is he?" She'd practically memorized Garcia's visitor schedule, she always knew who was going to see him so she could ask about him.

But she sounded so exhausted. "He's…" Garcia searched for the words to make it right, but it didn't seem fair to sugarcoat it. "He's not doing great. It's not good." At that her face fell further. Bianca's eyes were usually bright, but that spark had been absent since Reid went away. Everything about her spoke of a quiet defeat. She was trying to put on a brave face and soldier through the quagmire, but Garcia could see it written on her face. In the way she tugged the edges of an oversized gray sweater around herself, the fabric loose enough to accommodate her protruding stomach, like a woolen shield. The battle was too much. It wasn't supposed to be a battle; this was supposed to be a happy time for them.

"Have you been sleeping enough?" Garcia asked. She herself had struggled with rest. If the team was having this much trouble handling his confinement, she couldn't even imagine how Bianca must feeling.

A half-hearted shrug was her response. "As much as I can. It's hard without him, though. Sometimes I dream he's home, and when I wake up… It hurts all over again. I just miss him." When her voice broke, so did Garcia's heart.

"Why don't you go visit him?" Though she already knew the answer, she tried to keep her voice light. Hopeful.

"He asked JJ to tell me not to go. He said he doesn't want the other inmates to know about me. To see me. But I also think he doesn't want me to see him like that. I know he's trying to protect me, but I still wish I could at least see his face."

It was beginning to feel like a game of twenty questions, but they just kept coming. She couldn't stop herself. "Is there anything we can do?" she asked. There had to be something. There had to be a way they could help.

"Next time you see him – I, um I think Emily is going next? Could you just tell him… I love him?"

"Oh, sweetie, he knows that." That was a guarantee, one of the few certainties in their world. If one morning that statement was no longer true, well, the world would have turned upside-down.

She blinked tears back, nodding. "I know. I just – I just want him to hear it. So he doesn't forget." An eidetic memory didn't always preserve the most important things, not in a prison cell.

She stayed for almost an hour, trying to cheer up her friend and discern whether or not there was any way the team could help them through this time. There were so many things they could do, but it only went so far. What Bianca and Reid both needed was for hi to be out of prison. Back home. Back where he belonged.

In the safety of her lair, Garcia collapsed into her chair, and swiveled around to stare at her screens. A row of monitors, surrounded by tiny trinkets. Little gifts and photos, memories of happier times. Taped up on the bottom of her cabinets were small photos of the team. A picture of her and JJ, the team after Hotch's triathalon. All of them gathered at Morgan and Savannah's wedding, right next to a shot of the group at Bianca and Reid's.

Everything was so much easier then. The world was supposed to be good and just, wasn't it? The universe was kind, she'd always believed that. So why were two of the best people she knew suffering so much. The moment she thought that, the tears began to flow, and she couldn't stop them. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair at all. They'd been through _so_ much. She had been watching their story unfold, and after all of their loss and all of their struggle, it wasn't right that they should have to deal with this now. Garcia could still remember the night they all stood outside a hospital room, praying that Reid would be okay, and Bianca had been so terrified that their story was ending there. And when he had woken up, he'd held her so tight, pulling her right up into the bed with him.

Somehow they'd survived that. This was supposed to be their happily ever after, especially now that they were expecting a baby! Garcia had been waiting so long for them to finally start a family. They were going to be such good parents, this should have been a happy time for them. They should have been celebrating a painting a nursery, not preparing a defense statement and meeting with lawyers.

And she couldn't do anything to fix it. Nothing she could say would take their pain away or bring them back together. She sat and sobbed, feeling completely powerless to help either of them. Not having a family of her own yet, she liked to think of herself as the fairy godmother of the BAU children, and she felt like she was failing this one already. Reid couldn't stay in prison, he was only getting worse by the day. And Bianca was trying to be strong all on her own, but she needed him now more than ever.

Couldn't the world see this wasn't right?

"Hey, are you okay?" Garcia turned startled. She hadn't heard the door. Luke was standing there, eyebrows furrowed.

"Oh my god, oh my god." She sniffed, wiping her eyes quickly. "I'm – I'm fine."

"You don't seem fine." Damn Newbie. Couldn't he take a hint?

"Look, really really really, I'm okay. So just go away, please?" Rather than doing so, Luke closed the door behind him, staring her down. Was this how he got fugitives to talk?

"I know I may not be the someone you want to talk to, but I can't just walk away with you like this." She sighed, leaning back in her chair. She needed to talk to somebody, but she really didn't want it to be the new guy. Of all the team, he knew the least about Reid. "Hey, I know you went to visit Reid," he prompted. "Is that what this is about?" Maybe it was better that way.

"Yes," she admitted. "It's about Reid and it's about Bianca and it's about all of this. He's hurt and she's all alone and they're supposed to just be happy right now, but instead they're separated and miserable it's not fair. And he's hurt." Once she started talking, she couldn't manage to make herself shut up. Why was she telling him all this? "He's hurt real bad, and I promised he we would get him out, but he just… they way he looked at me, it was like we both knew it was a lie."

With the way things were going, she wasn't sure how much longer she could take all of this. The trial, Scratch, working at the BAU. Her heart wasn't meant to deal with all of those nightmares, and there had been a time when she could push them aside but there was nowhere to hide anymore. She needed that promise to be true. Not just for her own sanity and well-being, or for the team's, but for the two of them. Two people who deserved, if nothing else, to be together and to be safe and to be happy. It couldn't be a lie. It just couldn't.

Luke shook his head. "It won't be," he said. And for some reason, she found she believed him.

* * *

Once, a few weeks ago, she'd met with Fiona Duncan, his lawyer. They had talked about the possibility of her testifying as a character witness, and naturally she'd agreed. Anything to help him. Three weeks had passed, and things weren't getting better for Spencer at Milburn. He'd been in solitary confinement, in the infirmary. There had been a riot, several prisoners in his block had become violently ill. What he needed was to get out. What he needed was a miracle.

And it came, finally, in the form of an arraignment.

Emily brought him one of his suits from his go-bag, Bianca grabbed one of the loose dresses she'd recently bought for work, and the team made their way to the courthouse. It seemed like ages before his case number was finally called, and they all filed into the suffocating space of the courtroom.

All she knew was what Emily had explained to her. He'd been offered a plea deal of two to five years. In her head she did the math. Five years. Their child would be starting kindergarten before he made parole. And he'd be a convicted felon then. What would their future look like? Barely had she begun to picture it before she was updated – his blood had been found on the murder weapon. The deal was now ten to twenty-five.

That was a lifetime. That was their baby graduating college, finishing graduate school, maybe even having a family of their own before their father ever left Milburn. If he ever left. He could die in there.

No, no, she couldn't think like that. She had to stay calm. No added stress. Deep, slow breaths.

When they arrived at the courthouse, she still didn't know what his plea would be. All she knew was that in her heart, the man she loved couldn't have done this, no matter what the evidence said.

Bianca sat with the rest of the BAU on the benches. They reminded her of church pews, and the comparison unsettled her. This place didn't feel safe or sacred at all. From the far side of the courtroom, two guards brought him out, still in handcuffs. For mere seconds, he was able to twist around and glance her way, relief and sorrow and longing all flashing across his face in a look she could only assume mirrored her own. The shackles were unlocked, and he took his place beside Fiona.

"Case number 149-CR 0308," called the clerk. "US versus Reid."

The judge, a woman with a stony expression, peered at them from behind her thick-rimmed glasses. "Ms. Duncan, your client is an FBI agent, correct?" There was something in her voice that Bianca didn't like.

"That's right, your honor," Fiona answered, her voice all calm and poise. The perfect defense lawyer. She stood, shortly followed by Spencer, a bit hasty and awkward.

The judge barely even had to lance down at the paper before speaking. "You're charged with murder, which is a very serious matter."

"Yes, your honor," he replied. Oh God, it was so good just to hear his voice. How she'd missed that sound. It made her want to cry.

Not one to beat around the bush, the judge continued. "All right, Ms. Duncan, does your client wish to enter a plea at this time?" _Judge Willa Frost_ , her placard read. Frost. How fitting for someone so cold.

"He does."

"And you do you plead, Agent Reid?"

Bianca held her breath.

"Not guilty." He sounded so sure, steadfast.

"Thank God," sighed Penelope. Was it time for such utterances though? She wasn't sure she could feel that sort of relief just yet. Not until she knew how this would all turn out. A plea of innocence meant nothing if the judge didn't believe it.

"And as to bail?" inquired Frost, looking to the prosecution.

A man with dark hair and a scratchy voice stood from the other end of the room "The people oppose bail and request remand, your honor."

Fiona rose again, fierce in her response. "Your honor, my client presents no risk of flight."

"That's ridiculous," retorted the prosecutor. Assistant US Attorney Manny Martinez was his name, according to Rossi. "The defendant was arrested after fleeing the murder scene in Mexico." Whoever this man was, he refused to go down without a fight. Bianca had seen his type before in the courtroom, stuck working smaller cases, desperate to prove themselves. Even having worked his way up to the position of Assistant US Attorney, he carried that mentality, that desperation with him. They went back and forth as Fiona explained that those were extenuating circumstances, he'd been drugged unwillingly. His breach of protocol was his last-ditch attempt to help his ailing mother. That he wanted to clear his good name.

"He should have thought about his good name before sneaking across the border," the prosecutor shot back. She wished desperately some of her law school classmates were here. Criminal law wasn't her forte, but Tanvi could have talked her through it with ease, quelling her growing fears that this wouldn't be enough.

"I'm prepared to present multiple personal and law enforcement character witnesses on his behalf right now. The witnesses are here in the courtroom, most of them highly respected FBI agents."

"Simmer down, Ms. Duncan," said Frost, waving her hand dismissively. "It's almost 6:00, and I'm not inclined to hear from a string of character witnesses." No. _No_ , this couldn't be happening. They weren't going to lose him because of an impatient judge. "I will, however, entertain one. Choose carefully."

Fiona turned, her eyes landing right on Bianca. She inhaled sharply. "Defense calls Bianca Reid to the stand." And exhaled. Slowly, she walked to the stand, feeling all eyes in the room turn her way. Not wanting to lose her nerve, she didn't look at him until she was seated in the stand. Being a lawyer on the floor was one thing. To be a witness was completely different. She had no control, no power here. Only her words.

She stated her name before the court, and swore an oath to tell the truth. "Mrs. Reid, what is your relationship to the defendant?" asked Fiona.

"I'm his wife," she answered. Was she really the right choice? In a room of law enforcement experts, wouldn't it be better to have Emily or JJ on the stand?

"And how long have you known him?"

 _All my life,_ thought her heart. Decades without knowing his name, only knowing him as a feeling she had deep in her soul. A space waiting to be filled. "Seven years." She could still remember the day they'd met, had it really been so long ago? "We've been married for two."

"Do you believe Agent Reid is capable of the crime he's charged with?" asked Fiona. _Doctor_ , she couldn't help but think. It was _Doctor_ Reid, he'd earned that title.

"No," she said, trying not to sound too defensive. She knew herself how important it was for a witness to remain composed. "Absolutely not. In all the time I've known him, he has never been anything but gentle and kind. He's the most generous person I know. Even in a job that demands so much from him, he manages to see the good in people, and to do good for others. He isn't violent or dangerous. I have always trusted him. And I always will."

"Has he ever taken part in criminal activity before?"

Honesty was important. This would surface sooner or later, and better she be the one to tell them. "He had a problem with Dilaudid. The last time he took it was about four years ago, but he's clean now. I can give you the name and contact information for his sponsor. I can tell you which meetings he goes to and how often. Outside of that, he's a model citizen, and a renowned agent."

Fiona nodded, pacing. "Now, Mrs. Reid, do you believe the defendant presents a flight risk? Do you believe he would flee if given the chance?"

"No," she repeated. "He wouldn't do that. Spencer Reid is a man of his word, and of honor. He doesn't present any risk of flight."

"You're sure of that?" the lawyer probed.

"His mother is here. He's the only person she has left. And he would never disappoint his team like that. My husband loves his job, and he swore an oath he wouldn't break. His whole life is here. And I believe he's innocent. He has no reason to run."

"No further questions, your honor," Fiona announced, nodding towards Judge Frost. Martinez was then given the opportunity to cross-examine her. Bianca shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, dark eyes that were analyzing her every move, and not in the way she was used to being analyzed. Whenever Spencer tried to profile her, it was his way of figuring her out, trying to decipher whatever it was that was on her mind in order to help her, or to understand her. He looked for potential, for stories, for sparks of hope and opportunity. Martinez was searching for a weakness to exploit.

She refused to let him find it.

"Now, Mrs. Reid," he began. "You're married to the defendant. How can we trust you to speak honestly? How do we know you're not just protecting him?"

"I'm not blind to his faults," she answered. "I know his shortcomings, just as he knows mine. I'm an attorney at Darcy and Alam, I practice human rights law. I would never excuse any sort of behavior meant to intentionally harm an innocent person. My job is to protect those who are vulnerable, and to tell their truth when nobody else will. I have no reason to lie to you. If I thought he had murdered someone in cold blood, I wouldn't be defending him, and he knows that."

Martinez continued to stare her down, unwavering. Being on the other side of that stand had always made her feel strong and confident. She could use her words to draw justice from the mouth of a witness. On this side however, she felt too vulnerable, all of her secrets bared to strangers. Not just hers, but Spencer's as well.

"You said yourself that Agent Reid has a history of addiction. How can you be sure he won't commit another offense? He was high at the time of this one."

"He won't." She found a confidence rising in her chest. The judge had seen the drug history in his file, everything had come out after his arrest. There was no need to keep it secret. "Not one bit. Spencer was _forced_ to take drugs when he was abducted by a serial killer ten years ago. He got clean on his own, and since then has only relapsed once, after someone he cared about was killed in front of him." Surely even Judge Frost would have to understand those extenuating circumstances? "He's done very well for himself, and if you'd seen how distraught he was after being informed in Mexico that he'd been drugged, you'd understand."

The prosecutor narrowed his eyes. She knew what he was trying to do, he was searching for a way to discredit her, to make her testimony seem worthless. "But with a specially trained team of FBI agents, couldn't they help him escape?"

"Like _hell_ we would!" shouted Emily in indignation from the back of the room.

Frost banged her gavel against the wood. "Order!" she demanded.

"The BAU has always helped their team out, no matter what the cost. But they're a family first and foremost, and I'm pretty sure that if he ran away, they would be the first ones to find him and bring him back, though as I've previously stated, there's no risk of him fleeing. He would _never_ do that to me."

"Why not?"

There were a million reasons why. Did she dare go into detail? Specifics were always better in a trial. But doing so would demand the opening of old wounds. Briefly, she looked at him, an unspoken question in her eyes. Spencer saw, and nodded, ever so slightly.

Whatever she needed to say up there was okay. Whatever it took to get him home.

She hated digging up the secrets of her soul for this prosecutor. He had no right. And so she tried to focus on Spencer. Imagined she was talking to him instead. It was easier that way. Just the two of them. In the kitchen maybe. She would be perched on the counter, mug in hand, and he would be standing in front of her, his hands on either side of her. Leaning in so close their foreheads were touching. She could talk to him.

"Because he made me a promise. We're expecting our first child, in about three months. I – um, I wasn't really sure I could be a parent, but he's always believed in me. He told me he would be there every step of the way, and I know he meant it. Spencer's always wanted to be a dad, and…" She took another breath, fighting tears. "And he's going to be the best father. He really will. He wouldn't let me go through this alone. We've been through a lot together. I've almost lost him a few times, and I know he has no intention of leaving on his own now."

Martinez raised his eyebrows, the hint of a bemused smirk on his face. "That seems like an awful lot to stake on a mere promise. Why do you believe him?" It was the way he said _promise_ that bothered her so much. She wondered if he had anyone in his life who could keep their word, to whom a promise meant so much. It was a vow, one that neither she nor Spencer ever took lightly. This man thought a promise was something to scoff at, but he had no idea. No idea what they had been through.

"When he overdosed, I was the one who found him." Her voice began to shake, but she pushed through. This was for him. This was for her. This was for their future. "I was the one who sat with him in the hospital until he woke up, and I was the one who stayed with him while he went through withdrawal afterwards, and I told him I was scared of losing him. He made me a promise. He promised me he wouldn't leave me. That he would never run away, or leave me alone." A few tears slipped silently down her cheeks, and she forced herself to keep her voice from trembling. "Spencer swore to me that he would _always_ come back to me. And I know he'll keep his word."

They remained locked, eye to eye, until Martinez finally stepped back. "No further questions, your honor." Bianca was led back down, through the gate in the bar, to the rows of seats by the clerk.

"Your honor," added Fiona, jumping back up. "Agent Reid would be willing to turn over both his personal and government issued passports. We would be willing to bide by a curfew and a strict monitoring of his whereabouts at all times. As you can see, he's needed at home, and he doesn't present a risk of flight. Please, let him come home." She gestured towards Bianca. "Where he's needed."

Judge Frost looked between the defense and the prosecution, considering this. Every member of the BAU was tense with anticipation. " _If_ he were released, he would need to return to his house by 6 PM, in addition to wearing a GPS monitoring device. He wouldn't be allowed within one mile of Quantico, or within 400 feet of an FBI office. He would not be allowed to leave the DC-Virginia area, and seeing as though this is all tied to an attempt to help his mother, he would be forbidden from visiting her."

"We would abide by all of the above," Fiona answered.

"Bail is set at $500,000," said Frost, bringing down the gavel hard.

She hardly had time to panic at the amount, before Rossi shouted, "Posted!", already grabbing for his checkbook. After a quick exchange of paper between the guards, he was released. Bianca clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from crying out. He was free. He was free. It felt like slow motion as he turned to them, starting towards them. Her mind whirred, trying to process it. He was going to see her. She was going to be able to touch him, to hold him. They were going to be together again.

And then it all sped up again, as Spencer jumped over the bar and into the spectator gallery, running towards them, barely slowing down in time to keep from knocking her over as he threw his arms around her. She felt her knees give way, and soon they were both on the ground as he held her close, sobbing. Saltwater mingled with saltwater. She clutched as his shirt, breathing in that familiar smell that had been absent far too long from their bed. His hand stroked her hair, his lips finding her forehead, her cheeks, kissing her fiercely.

They were a spectacle, she was sure of it, but she didn't care. Not when his mouth found hers and she felt that the world had finally righted itself again. It was impossible to tell how much time finally passed before they tentatively stood back up again, his hand still tightly laced with hers. Every touch a firm, _I love you I love you I love you._

"I missed you," she said, as he said, "I love you." And then vice versa. All at once. So much to say, and yet so few words needed.

" _We_ missed you," she added.

He smiled through the tears, placing a hand on her belly. How she'd missed his touch. "Right now they're the size of an ear of corn," he told her, not missing a beat. "They have taste buds, and you'll be able to feel them kicking." His eyes grew wide, the last few weeks momentarily forgotten. "Wait – have you already felt them kick?"

Bianca laughed, wiping away more tears. Happy tears, finally, after so much overflowing sorrow. "Yeah. Yeah, I have."

"Oh my god," he breathed. Spencer pulled her into another careful embrace, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm so proud of you. I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

"It's okay. You're here now. That's all that matters." She leaned close to him, kissing his shoulder. It was a rushed flurry of hugs, as all of the team tried to get to him, to hold him for just a minute. Through it all, he never let go of her hand.

From behind, the clerks were beginning to urge them forward. As they approached the imposing mahogany doors, he stopped, staring at them. Waiting. It took a second before she realized he was waiting for them to be unlocked. Oh, what had been through in there?

"Hey," she said, squeezing his hand. "They're open. You're free." Spencer stared at her, swallowing hard. Fingers still interlocked, she lifted their hands against the cool wood. "Come on. Let's go home."

* * *

 **Author's** **Note:**

 **Well hello again!** **I hope summer has been good to all of you. My goal is to have this (mostly!) finished before Season 13 airs, so we'll see if that happens!**

 **Now, first and foremost, thank yous are in order! Thanks to Ohimeko-Kou, cindyinthesky** (with diamonds?), **pandas1155, Nicol Candi, giulia-valentini-739, rosymax9, AfireLove1998, smarcoresh, sbitzer82393, GoddessofPower10, heyitsellibear, badkitty98, Triggerfinger213, and FreeHugs0009 for following/favoriting this story! There are almost 300 of you following this? How is that even possible?  
**

 **And thank you to rebelforcauses** (lol yes, finally an update! And thank you again so very much!), **notjackietyler** (Oh wow, welcome! I'm so glad you like this story, and that means so very much! I hope you make it far enough to see this note! I'm so glad the research is appreciated, I try really hard to make things "accurate" or flow together well so that makes me so happy to hear! You're so sweet!), **gossammermouse101** (keep me posted on your thoughts as we navigate this crazy season!), **dianakotori** (thank you! Haha I'm hoping I can balance out that angst well!), **and** **Love-Fiction-2017** (thanks! Right back atcha, haha!) **for leaving such lovely reviews. I appreciate you so very much, and it always makes me so happy to hear from you!  
**

 **Send me your thoughts on this alternative to the Season 12 canon/your thoughts on the show's actual finale/just a message to say hello if you'd like! As always, feedback is always appreciated. Now, let's play a game called "Can Bry Finish This Story Before Season 13 Airs?"**

 **Thanks for sticking with me this far! See you next chapter!**


	48. 48) Freedom

He was home, but she was still waiting for him to come back to her. It wasn't as simple as him being released and their world continuing as normal. It was happening in small pieces, little by little. She was going to have to be patient with him. This wasn't something that could be rushed. At the same time, she needed him to be there. They needed each other.

To her relief, Spencer agreed to start seeing a therapist. Twice a week he would be going to Dr. Robert Kessler, who came highly recommended by the Bureau. There was plenty to be discussed. The day after he came home, she'd asked him what he wanted to make for dinner. The question had stunned him, he set down the pencil he had been furiously scribbling away with and stared ahead, eyes blank as his mouth fell open ever so slightly, a space created by silence rather than words.

To see him so completely lost had scared her. Not wanting to prolong the heavy quiet, she had jumped in, asking, "You know, I think I have everything for butter chicken. Maybe some rice and naan. How's that sound?"

"That… that's good," he'd said, nodding slowly.

Decisions were his to make again, and that would take adjustment. She tried not to overwhelm him, giving him suggestions rather than leaving him with open-ended options. For food, for clothes, for things they could do. In that first week, she often caught him staring at the closet in their bedroom and would make passing remarks like, "I bet that purple shirt would look really good on you," or, "it's chilly out, you should wear a sweater." Narrow things down just a little bit. Make the world smaller, more manageable.

The nightmares would require other strategies. That very first night, she felt him thrashing and shaking beside her. When she gently shook him awake, he yelped, staring at her with wide eyes, his skin slick with sweat. The color had drained from his face and he'd slipped off to the bathroom, saying he needed a moment. When she woke up the next morning, she found him asleep on the living room couch. For a few nights that pattern continued. Bianca would wake up alone and find him fast asleep downstairs.

One night, she awoke around 1 AM, and saw he was gone. Unable to fall back asleep, she crept downstairs to where he lay, muttering to himself in his sleep. He looked so terrified, even with his eyes closed. Whatever world he'd been transported to in his dreams, she wanted to bring him back. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she gently roused him. Sleepy brown eyes blinked at her, confused.

"Come back to bed," she said. He started to protest, but she cut him off. "The baby keeps moving, so I'm not getting much sleep anyways. I'd rather have you next to me. We'll get through this together." So they would.

It didn't long to become accustomed once more to waking up next to him every morning. It was a continuous comfort, to hear the soft sound of his breathing and inch closer to him. So when she again found herself jolted awake by the baby, she was startled to find herself alone in the bed. It had been a week and a half since he slept on the couch, despite the bad dreams that sometimes kept him up. Where had he gone? Had something happened? His absence sent her heart racing, recalling too many nights when he'd disappeared on a case, all the weeks she slept in an empty house worrying about him in that prison. What if whoever was responsible for Rosa's death had found them? What if it was Scratch?

"Spencer?" she cried out into the dark. Seconds later, there was the sound of rapid footsteps, and he appeared in the doorway. Messy-haired and with a pajama shirt buttoned slightly askew, but otherwise unharmed.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I… just didn't know where you were," she said, her voice breaking. The sudden wave of emotion that hit her was unexpected, and she felt her lip quivering, on the edge of tears. "I'm sorry, I don't..." She had convinced herself it was all fine now, that she was over all the fears and the doubts. Having him back was supposed to make it better, and she'd been able to shoulder through their days without losing her composure. Suddenly that calm had vanished, in a single moment of irrational panic.

He crossed the room quickly, climbing up onto the mattress and hugging her close as she clung to him. "I'm sorry. I just went to get some water. I'm here. It's okay," he whispered. "I'm here. I'm home."

"I know." He was home. She couldn't explain why that particular moment of absence had frightened her so. Maybe it _was_ the months of fighting back the fears and the loneliness, or the thought of losing him again after everything that had happened recently. Maybe she just missed him, needed him more than she was aware of. But he was here now. He wasn't going anywhere.

They crawled back under the blankets together, fingers interlaced, not quite ready to let go.

* * *

Freedom took adjusting to. He could remember how strange the world had felt for the first couple weeks after being trapped in the Hankel shack in Georgia. This was entirely different. Routines in and out of cells. Unpredictable danger around the corner. The strange safety of a metal cage. Solitary confinement. For a month, his world had been sterile and cold and unforgiving. Everything harsh and hard.

To come home, to come back to their home with its blankets and sunlight and fresh coffee was a jarring shift. He had his own bathroom again. He had his own clothes. He could eat when he wanted and what he wanted. And she was there.

It still surprised him for several days after, to turn the corner and find Bianca there. In prison she'd been a dream, a hazy hallucination. She was the exact opposite of the Milburn Correctional Center. Warmth and softness and color. He could fall asleep with her body against his, wrap his arms gently around her. But there were still times when he would wake up in a panic in the middle of the night, terrified that it was only a dream and he was back in his cell. Shaw or someone else around the corner, waiting to attack him.

Though Bianca cut back on her hours, she was still working. When she was home, they would spent almost every minute together, making up for lost time. Painting the walls of the nursery, flipping through books of baby names, curling up in bed to watch old movies while he kissed the crook of her neck. Little by little they were rebuilding their home. He was rebuilding himself. Even seeing a therapist therapist, though he'd always brushed off such appointments by giving all the right answers. This time was different, it had to be. Reid knew he needed to put in the work if he was going to be a good husband and a good father. Dr. Kessler had worked with psychologists and therapists before, and had he had developed quite a skill for detecting BS. Funny, how telling the truth really _did_ help. They talked about prison, his arrest, his mother's condition. Every now and then, Kessler would toe the line and push into something a little deeper, asking questions that he couldn't answer without mentioning his childhood or his team. For once, he didn't fight it. Reid opened up, sharing the details he usually kept tucked away neatly in a stray corner of his mind. Bianca was the only one he usually let that far in, but Kessler could actually recommend behavioral techniques that were proven to help those in fields like his to deal with trauma and guilt.

Things were getting easier. Though his life still felt tilted sideways, so different from what had been his routine for the last fourteen years, it didn't hurt quite so much. It was the vacation he'd rarely taken, a break from all the horrors and monsters. Small comforts were to be found, like falling asleep next to her and knowing that he would be able to do so tomorrow night. Making plans and not having to worry about whether or not work would steal him away. When she was away at work, he would go to therapy, or sit outside with a book or some knitting. He talked to the neighbors more than he ever had before. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't quite happiness – maybe if he could still see his mother and his friends, it would be. But it was contentment, at the very least.

It was the opportunity to just be Spencer Reid, no titles or expectations to uphold. He had always imagined that leaving work would be unbearably miserable, that he would be bored and lonely. A few years ago, the notion would've terrified him. Times had changed though, they were changing still, and while the situation wasn't ideal, it was far from miserable.

There were little joys, small pockets of genuine happiness. The moment they had been sitting in bed and she'd put down the book she was reading to grab his hand and place it over her stomach. Before he could ask what she was doing, he _felt_ it. Just the tiniest flutter. So slight he nearly missed it. But there it was again. A little kick against his hand, and he gasped, a wild grin spreading across his face. How had he been so unnerved by this eight years ago, when JJ was pregnant with Henry? It seemed now to be the most miraculous thing on the planet.

"Wow," he said, completely lost for words. It suddenly felt real in a way it hadn't before. _Knowing_ they were having a baby was one thing, seeing the ultrasounds and the changes in her body was another, but this was something else entirely. Something tangible, concrete proof that this baby was alive and real and _theirs._

One afternoon, on the way home from a visit with Dr. Kessler, he stopped on a whim upon seeing a familiar bright blue logo. It felt like fate. Bianca was in the kitchen when he came home, setting a pot of water on the stove when he burst through the door.

"Was your session good?" she asked, confused by his excitement as he set a box down on the counter.

"It was great," he said. And it had been. By unpacking his troubles with Dr. Kessler, he had more space to focus on her, on helping her through this. "But even better, I have something for you." She tilted her head, bemused, as he took her hands into his. "Do you remember the first time we said _I love you_?"

Bianca smiled, and he couldn't help but think she looked so adorable standing there. "Of course I do. I don't have that eidetic memory, but I would never forget that."

"I just keep thinking about how much I love you, and how that love we have is growing and then today – you'll never guess where I passed by today." With all the eagerness of a magician about to reveal the correct card, he tapped the label on the box.

When she read it, she laughed, delight dancing in her eyes. "Captain Cookie and the Milkman." Taking care not to tear the label, she opened it up. "Are these ice cream sandwiches?"

A shrug, as he attempted to downplay his own mirth, a warmth in his chest that was only just beginning to be familiar again. "That was the first time you said it. And I said it back." Reid brought his hand to her cheek, and the warmth became soft, a gentle flicker of candlelight, nostalgia for the past and for the present. "And I'm never going to stop saying it. I love you, I love you, I love you."

"I love you too." She leaned up to kiss his cheek. How many nights had he lain awake on a hard cell cot, imagining that very gesture? All the while he had wondered if he'd ever be able to feel her lips against his skin once more, or if he would be trapped in that space where touching was never allowed, and where love could hardly survive. "Did you buy a whole dozen?"

"A _baker's_ dozen," he amended. "We didn't have anything like this at… at Milburn." It always came out a little awkwardly. He still wasn't sure how much he wanted to say, or how much she should know. If he would, he would wipe all memory of that godforsaken place from his mind.

"You're going to make yourself sick," she said. It was only half-teasing, mocking his constant need for sugar. After going so long without it, he was steadily building back up, adding a little more to his coffee each day. But her voice was still gentle, ever-aware of what he'd been through. There was no way she was going to stop him from eating ten or so cookies, if that's what he wanted.

Reid gently shut the box, slipping it into the freezer before it could melt on the counter. Then he leaned in to kiss her properly, lips against lips. "Have I told you lately that you're beautiful?" he asked, pulling away. One hand gliding down her arm.

"Only all the time," she giggled, closing the distance between them again. It was true. That was another thing he couldn't seem to get enough of, saying over and over how lovely she was, how much he adored her. An attempt to fill the silence she had heard in his absence. It felt like an eternity, not being able to speak with her, to tell her those things. Not being loved by her, that was lonely. Not being able to love _her_ , that was what truly hurt. Kept him up wondering what would happen if he never made it out. What if he never had the chance to say it again? One had to consider the possibility that every time had been the last time when they were in prison. Nothing else seemed to exist beyond the cell walls and the barbed wire fence of the yard.

It had been so long. So lonely. He moved his mouth lower, kisses pressed to her neck. "I _love_ you."

"I was about to start dinner," she said, making no move to pull away.

"It's okay. A watched pot never boils, anyways." Pulling her closer.

"You know that's not scientifically accurate statement."

"Shh," he murmured. "I'm trying to be spontaneous." She kissed him again.

It had been so long.

This was the end of waiting. This was reunion. Many of the other prisoners talked about 'freedom' as a tangible thing. It was a cold beer at their favorite bar. Sitting in their own house with their friends, watching the game. Visiting a park with their child. A tattoo parlor. When they spoke of freedom, they always spoke of that thing.

The pot was abandoned, to boil without an audience.

This was his freedom. In solitary confinement, in the infirmary, he thought of her. He dreamed of what it would feel like to hold her again. Freedom. Her, in his arms. Nothing else but they love they shared between them.

* * *

The file folders spread out on her desk seemed to stare back at her as she sighed, leaning back in the desk chair. It was hard enough to prioritize cases, but now she was having to decide which ones to focus on herself, and which to pass on to other attorneys. She had never been skilled at saying no or turning down a challenge, but with maternity leave on the horizon, she didn't have much of a choice. Dr. Molina had already cautioned her that she might need bed rest for the last few weeks, and there was no way she could keep up with her current workload in that situation.

Things were changing. She would have to learn to adjust. Although she had to admit, there had been far more changes this year than she was expecting. A baby was one thing, but Diana was getting worse, Spencer's legal status was uncertain, and Scratch was still out there. Stability seemed a far-off dream. Around every corner there was some new terror waiting for them, to throw them off. The future was shrouded in darkness, and it was all she could do to keep moving forwards and hoping there was a light at the end of it. They had come too far, been through too much to give up now.

"Bianca, hey." Salma, one of her coworkers, brought her back from her thoughts. "Damian and I are going to grab lunch downstairs. Wanna join?"

"Absolutely." She grabbed her wallet and ID, following them down two flights of stairs to the small café in the bottom of the building. It housed several different law firms and consultants, and it wasn't unusual to run into other tenants there. On days like this, when it was rainy and colder, most people preferred to pack a lunch or eat there, rather than drive somewhere else. Not that she minded the company, Bianca liked nearly everyone at Darcy & Alam, their field tended to draw like-minded people who wanted to do good in the world. There were exceptions, like Alexander, the egotistical hotshot who was already gunning for partner.

His desk was right next to Damian's and the two quarreled over just about everything. Cases, printer use, language in emails. Damian was sarcastic, which Alexander claimed was unprofessional. Damian was narrating to her and Salma their latest feud over a stapler as they made their way to a little table in the lobby. "It's the fifth time this week he's left it on his desk, knowing full well it's the communal stapler. I'm telling you, he's trying to start something."

Salma laughed, adjusting a loose end of her hijab back over her shoulder. "And I'm telling you you're reading into it too much. He's probably just not thinking."

"Or he just thinks that because he's a _lawyer_ and I'm a paralegal that he's somehow got something on me. I've been here six years, he's barely made it past six months."

"He's a human rights lawyer," chimed in a voice from the table beside him. "How much difference does it make?" They turned to see two men in pressed suits who they recognized from the corporate firm on the floor above them. Though most attorneys in other practices weren't unkind towards them, it was inevitable that meetings with those who frowned upon their area of work occurred. Human rights lawyers often faced persecution abroad, a fact that earned them respect, though there were still many who claimed human rights law was useless and unenforceable. One of the men, wearing a striped tie, leaned in closer. "You're just a firm of Amal Clooney wannabees."

"Really?" Bianca sighed. "Amal Clooney. Is that the best you've got? It's not even an insult."

The other man, in a bowtie, shrugged. "Well, while you're trying to keep your clients out of solitary confinement, we'll be keeping ours out of prison altogether." He and his partner stood, gathering their lunch bags.

"Your corporate psychopaths are the ones we'll be putting _in prison_ someday," Salma shot back. The two shrugged, unperturbed, and walked off. Salma stabbed her salad with her fork, muttering about airhead attorneys.

"Was your husband ever in solitary?" Damian asked, turning to Bianca.

"Damian!" Salma chided, elbowing him. "Bianca, you don't have to answer that."

"No, it's okay." She understood the curiosity. After all, it wasn't often your colleagues spouses went to prison. People wanted to know how prisons really worked, what it was really like on the inside. There were always questions, glances that turned her way when they thought she wouldn't notice. It was subtle, the shift in treatment when news quietly spread. It wasn't judgment. Something more akin to pity. "He was, for his own safety. He doesn't like to talk about it much."

Damian and Salma were people she could trust not to spread gossip, and she knew the question came not from nosiness but from a desire to understand prison conditions. Even so, this was Spencer's information to share, and while he was willing to discuss it with her, she wasn't quite ready to talk about it with her coworkers. Everything was too fresh and too uncertain. There were too many details too explain to make sense of the mess. All people knew was that it was related to the Bureau, he'd been in prison, and he was out until further trial took place.

Exceptions for the "need-to-know" policy the Reids had adopted existed. Outside of the team, Eva and Lorenzo knew, as did Tanvi, and her boss – who she had needed to explain it to in order to procure time off for the arraignment and explain why she might need more time to work from home.

"So," Salma said, quickly changing the subject, "have you almost finalized the amicus brief for the travel ban?"

Bianca had been charged with finalizing the firm's amicus curiae to the Supreme Court, and she was determined to do it well. "I should have it finished by the end of the day. Thanks for copyediting the last draft. I've had my hands a bit full with research on the Rohingya crisis and the ICE cases."

"Don't we all," Damian sighed. "The detention centers, potential healthcare repeals, pushbacks on LGBT rights."

Salma shook her head. "Not to mention the border wall. And that's just within the US." It seemed like cases were piling up faster and faster these days. Abuses in Russia, migrants dying in Greece and Turkey, North Korean prison camps, executions in the Phillipines, Zika in Brazil. There were so many people hurting. It was moments like this when Bianca couldn't help but wonder if now was really a good time to bring a child into the world, when everything in the world seemed so unstable. And _their_ world was unstable.

She was over halfway through the pregnancy. It would only be a few more months before they were taking care of a small person. What would their lives look like at that time? Without thinking, she placed her hand over her belly, as if that motion alone would be enough to protect their child.

"Everything okay?" Salma asked.

"Yeah," she replied. "I was just thinking about, um, how I'm going pass cases if I have to leave early."

"Don't give any of them to Alexander," Damian insisted. "He's the enemy now." When the trio finally made their way back up to the office, she and Salma had to stifle laughter as Damian hurried to snatch the stapler back from the lawyer's desk. Bianca settled back in at her own desk, pulling up the amicus brief once more on her computer. At that moment, her phone buzzed. Upon seeing it was a message from Spencer, she couldn't help but smile. It wasn't unusual for him to send her a text at work, updating her on whatever he was doing to pass the time or typing out some sweet words to brighten her afternoon.

This particular one had a photo of their kitchen stove, a pan sitting on it. In the pan was what she assumed was once a sandwich, but it was so blackened she could barely tell it apart from the pan. In the foreground was Spencer, wearing a peacoat and purple scarf, as well as a grimace.

His text read, _The good news is that I didn't set off the smoke detector. The bad news is that I had to open all the windows to air out the kitchen, so the house is cold. The other good news is that I found the scarf you made me for my birthday._

She covered her mouth with her hand to keep from giggling. That was her Spencer. A genius in every sense of the word, equipped with more degrees than he could count on one hand, and yet utterly incapable of making lunch without a culinary disaster taking place. Not that she minded. These little moments were proof of progress. He was smiling more often. He didn't look as lost around the house. He was sleeping through the night more often. He was coming back to her.

 _I'll bring Chinese home for dinner. Stay warm. I love you,_ she typed back. _ps- the scarf looks good._

The world was too big for her to hold everything together. There was too much hurt for any one person to heal everything. But she could start here. Start with the work in front of her and the people in her life. Start with their home and this child. Spencer was free, and she was here. For now, that was enough. She had words at her disposal, her courage, and a great determination.

If the world felt dark, she would make her own light. That was the way to keep moving forward.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Thank you to everyone who has continued to read and support this story despite my inability to update on a regular basis. So much has changed in my life since I first published this story (those of you who follow me on tumblr know I've pretty much taken a hiatus from writing), and while I don't know how often I'll be able to update I'm determine to at least finish it!**

 **Thank you to star2345, kimikokimono, luna-3-sith, Ashneal, DragonsImagined1331, coliebolie, Stefanielove, AMV1999, niteshine, Jessiness5134, CriminologicallyCrazy, neneski, Jacqueline3005, I'm-a-Klaus-addict, queengeek1, Shadow Operative, heichou, windlily6370, GraceConnorReese, ILoveThee, daumae, Jupiter Water Goddess, NerdyWordyPrincess, Janootie, Irelandlover, RoseShadow27900, isabella marie 1994, bloodychu, Em-x-everlasting, koeskygle, danniimarie, emilyL18, Jungkook666, TheAntidisestabilishmentarian** (love the name!), **RedStar8, naniadreams, ikkee33, TheMagicalMoon, flysax,and Wearegolden19** (is that a reference to the MIKA song perchance?) **for following/favoriting this story! Especially considering I haven't updated since August!**

 **A great big thank you to dianakotori** (thank you for your kind words and feedback! I couldn't bear to be more cruel than the writers, haha. They deserved something good), **kimikokimono** (thank you for catching that!), **DeliciousAudrey** (it's okay, I've been gone too! Ahaha, I definitely get that. But I can say that Cat Adams will definitely be involved so there's that to look forward to!), **Jupiter Water Goddess** (I really really appreciate this feedback, and it's definitely something I want to be more conscious of moving forward! Thank you thank you), **inabellclo** (oh no! I apologize for any tears caused!), **and Nina3KPop** (eep, I'm sorry! I'm such a sucker for height-difference tropes) **for leaving reviews. I appreciate every word of feedback you leave, and I'm so grateful for your support.**

 **Many many thanks and best wishes to all of you! I'll see you next chapter!**


	49. 49) Everything to Lose

_"I'm one with the Force and the Force is with me."  
"He's praying for the door to open."  
"It bothers him because he knows it's possible."_

Reid reached over to grab the remote, pausing the movie. The characters of _Rogue One_ froze in place on the screen.

"Why'd you stop it?"

"Because you're falling asleep," he said. Bianca sat sideways on the sofa, her back to the armrest, leaning into it. A thick blanket lay over her, which she'd pulled up to her chin. Her eyes were closed, but the expression on her face was peaceful.

"I'm still listening," she protested, voice soft. "I like this bit. It's spiritual. If you think about it, _may the Force be with you_ is kind of a blessing, you know."

He chuckled lightly, but set a hand on her arm, his thumb moving in gentle strokes over her skin. "Are you feeling okay, B?"

A nod from her. "Yeah. Just tired."

Even so, he worried about her. "Are you sure? Have you been eating enough? You're not stressed out about anything?"

"I'm _okay_ ," she said. Eyes slowly opening, she looked up at him with a gentle smile. "I'm eating. I'm resting. And despite everything, I'm actually not as stressed as I thought I would be."

"What do you mean?"

Bianca offered a half-shrug, shifting on the couch so she could sit up more. "I mean, I know Scratch is still out there and there's still going to be a trial. And things are crazy with work as things keep changing in the world. I think it's just because you're home now." With one hand, she touched the locket around her neck, the same one he'd given her two Christmases ago. "Not that it's a good thing, you being suspended. But when you were gone, I was constantly scared something might happen to you. That one day I would say goodbye and never see you again. When you were home, there was always this knowledge in the back of my mind that at any minute you could get called away. So even though the future is so up in the air right now, it's just nice to have you here. To know that when I come home, you'll be here. That I don't have to be afraid of losing you right now."

She grabbed his hand, fingers intertwining with his and giving a quick squeeze. "Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," he said. And it did. That same knowledge had hung over him every second they had, though they always tried not to acknowledge it. It was like trying to grasp fistfuls of rainwater, hold to as much as he could, make every second with her count before a phone call would whisk him away to another part of the country. It made every moment with her more special, made him cherish all the little things that they couldn't afford to take for granted – waking up late on the weekends, having meals together, going grocery shopping.

At the same time, it was terrifying. There had been many an occasion in the field when he genuinely thought he might die. In those moments, several questions would flash through his mind. Who would tell his mother? How would the team react? What would happen to Bianca? It never failed to astound him how much he managed to think of her in those brief flashes. A scenario would play out in his mind sometimes. Garcia or Rossi, or maybe JJ, knocking on the door of their little house. Bianca would answer and their expression would say everything. She would break down. He couldn't bear to imagine beyond that. There had been a time in his life when he thought it wouldn't matter to anyone if he died, that the world would carry on without so much as blinking. But he couldn't forget her reaction when he'd overdosed. Her panicked pleas, begging him not to leave her. How she'd cried at his bedside when he finally woke up,

He couldn't bear the thought of hurting her. In Milburn, he had often wondered what would happen if he died there, or if he never got out. What legacy would he leave? What would he leave behind on this earth? What would Bianca be left with? Their child. An ailing mother-in-law. Mountains of questions and a broken promise. Bianca was one of the strongest people knew, but everyone had a breaking point.

He wouldn't let it come to that. Reid gripped her hand a little tighter, causing the corners of her mouth to turn a little more upwards. That smile always made his heart swell. Those brown eyes, so warm, shining in the light of their living room lamp, he could spend forever getting lost in her gaze. A single look from her could make him feel everything. What happened after death was something he wasn't sure about, but he knew he wasn't ready to face the prospect of going without hearing her laugh or falling asleep beside her.

"Is it weird that I'm going to miss this part of our life?" she asked. "Not all of the chaos, just… you and me, together. Being able to go through everything and knowing we can just fall perfectly into place at the end of the day."

Though she had come a long way from the terror that had paralyzed her when she first told him she was pregnant, there were still worries; moments of panic when she'd first started to show, small doubts that bubbled up in questions like that from time to time.

"Not weird at all. But we'll always have each other. Maybe that space is going to grow a little, but we-" he paused, grabbing both of her hands and splaying their fingers out like a fan so that they lined up, fingertip to fingertip, before closing them again and holding tight "- are always going to fit together. Perfectly."

That was one thing he would never doubt. Things might change, their world might shift, but everything they had endured together he couldn't imagine anything changing their love for each other. They would always find each other. Always bring each other back from the edge of fear or out of the overwhelming dark.

Bianca leaned back into the couch once more, sighing contentedly. She closed her eyes once more.

"You want me to turn off the movie?" he asked. "We can go to bed if you want."

"No, it's okay. I won't fall asleep."

Her assurance wasn't convincing. "I can always carry you upstairs," he offered. At that, she groaned and shrugged off the blanket, standing from the couch. "What? Do you not trust me to?"

"No, it's not that," she laughed. "But if I'm gonna end up on bedrest, I'm going to use the stairs as much as I can before then." It was true, lying still all day would drive her crazy.

Reid grabbed the remote to switch off the movie, then stood up to press a kiss to the top of her head. "Come on, then. Let's go to bed." They walked up the stairs together, one step at a time. There was a newfound peace in knowing that they could fall asleep without worrying that tomorrow might take him away.

* * *

Things were changing, little by little, as they began to make space in their lives for the impending arrival. The little green nursery had taken the place of what was once their library, with books being relocated to other parts of the house. Spencer made another perfect model of the solar system, and when they made trips to the bookstore they deliberately browsed the children's section, slowly building a bookshelf full of things like Roald Dahl stories, fairy tales, and Dr. Seuss.

There was exhaustion and impatience, and the growing curve of her abdomen. He worried over her, fretting as though she might break under the strain of carrying a child. Constantly he was asking her if she needed something, or offering to do things for her. She wanted to assure him that everything was okay, that she could handle this, for now. Those fears and those doubts still lived in her chest, and at times it became all too overwhelming. Just as Spencer had promised, he was there by side. It wasn't quite what they had anticipated, but they were making things work.

Bianca had to adjust her position in bed, no longer able to cuddle close to him at night. He would still hold her, his arm draped over her shoulders or his hand resting on her stomach. The movements of an unborn child used to freak him out, and they still did somewhat, but lately he'd come to understand it as a sign that their baby was still alive, that it existed and that they love they shared had really created something.

For the next few months, her doctor had ordered partial bed rest. She was growing weak, and they wanted to ensure the baby carried as close to term as possible. Not running was hard enough, but lying down for hours at a time was driving her mad. Spencer was always finding some new way to pass the time together, whether it was books or films or board games. He would do grocery shopping in the morning before his curfew so she could save her energy to cook, something she found herself more determined to do as it was one of the few activities she could perform without too much exhaustion. When he was away, Bianca wrote, to him and to their child, poems that she intended to save for them someday.

Sometimes she would talk out loud, wondering if it was true that a baby could hear and recognize their mother's voice before birth. It must've been, because Spencer had told her so. She talked because despite the fact that she was still scared, still anxious, she didn't want to blame the child for those feelings. Even now, she wanted to let them know that they were loved, and they were wanted. She had to make sure that she was capable of practicing kindness still, empathy and compassion and selflessness, especially towards something – someone - she had never expected.

Was she talking to her daughter? Her son? They didn't want to know the baby's gender until it was born, didn't want to make plans or assumptions based on something so simplistic. What would the child be like? Would they have Spencer's smarts, his ability to learn anything in a single day? Would they like writing as much as she did? There were so many things she wanted to know, and even if she was uncertain, that curiosity fostered a small sense of anticipation.

"We really should make a list of names," she said, as they put together a go-bag for the hospital. She insisted they had plenty of time to do so, but Spencer wanted to be prepared. "How do we know it'll fit them?"

Spencer was trying to fold some of her oversized sweatshirts and pajama pants into perfect squares. "I guess we have to wait and see. We can always choose a nickname later on. Like how Jennifer is more of a JJ, or Eva feels right for Aoibhegréine."

"Mm, you're right. And I suppose there's always middle names too." They had tossed around a few names they both liked. Arthur, Atticus, Ethan, Oliver. Maria, Elizabeth, Luna, Amelia. Syllables that carried potential, words that could hold entire personalities. They would whisper them out loud sometimes, as if speaking too loudly would cast some kind of spell.

Bianca glanced at the stack of books he'd made on their bed. "That's a lot of reading, you've got there. Are we really going to pack all of those?"

With mini-bottles of shampoo in hand, he turned to her. "You never know. Labor can take eight or twelve hours – even longer! There are many reports of women who were in labor for over 48 hours."

She buried her head in her hands. "Ugh, please don't remind me." They'd just started going to Lamaze classes and some of the veteran mothers made it sound awful enough. One even said she'd been in labor for three days with her first child.

"Sorry," he said, grimacing. "I mean – that's, uh, pretty unlikely."

Bianca rested both hands on her growing bump. In the beginning, it had been so hard to fathom that her body housed another human being. It was much easier to believe now that she could feel them move, but it was still difficult to imagine what it would be like when they entered the world. When they were living in the nursery down the hall, able to crawl and cry and exist on their own. At times she wanted to rush things along, get the exhaustion and anxiety of pregnancy over with, and meet this baby. Then there were moments when she felt so utterly unprepared that she wished she could pause time entirely, prevent the day from coming where she would actually have to face being a parent. Until that day came, she couldn't make any mistakes.

"One thing is for sure," she said.

"What's that?"

"If it's a boy, we're _not_ naming them after our fathers."

"Oh, god no," he laughed. Spencer neatly folded a blanket into the go-bag. He reached for the next book in the stack and paused, looking at it with fondness. That fondness grew into a smile when he turned to her, and she could make out the cover – _To Kill a Mockingbird._ "We're going to be better parents than them. Much better."

* * *

They were sitting on the bed together, reading. She was curled up sideways in Spencer's lap, her head on his chest and her arms slung around his waist while he made his way through another chapter of _Ulysses_.

"Oh!" Her exclamation caused him to pause, setting the book down on the blankets.

"Everything okay?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

She nodded, placing her hand over her stomach. "Just the baby, that's all." The palm of his hand rested next to hers, long fingers stretching out to feel the same kicking that had startled her.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to bring a smile to his face. That smile quickly turned to concern as he asked, "Does it ever hurt?"

"No, not really. Usually it just surprises me."

Worry was still etched on his face as he ran his hands gently up and down her torso. "You're doing so good," he said. "Only a few more weeks."

Not long left at all, just under ten weeks now. Which reminded her - "I've been meaning to ask – what do you want to do about godparents?"

"I was thinking a little about that," he admitted. "Would – would it be okay if we made… Morgan their godfather? I mean, he's always been like an older brother to me. He even named his son after me. I feel like it kind of makes sense."

She nodded in agreement. "I think that would be perfect." There was little justification needed, Morgan was practically family to begin with.

"Do you want to make Eva their godmother?" he offered.

"As much as I love her, Eva's not often in the States." It was something she'd been considering. Since neither of them had siblings they were close with, she was hoping their godparents would function as extended family. Eva was one of her dearest friends, and there were several people she loved who would happily take on that duty, but one name kept coming to the forefront of her mind. "There are plenty of people I'm close to who leave near us who would be wonderful, but I think there's someone who would it mean a great deal to."

"Who's that?"

Bianca smiled, lacing her fingers through his. "Alex Blake. I think she already sees you like a son, honestly. And well, this baby won't exactly have any biological grandparents who are able to visit, since your mom is so far away. I think it would mean more to Alex than to anyone else I can think of."

Blake had lost her son when Ethan was very young, and she'd always been a good friend of his. It was a small invitation to really be a part of his family, and Spencer found he wanted that very much.

"You would be okay with that?" he asked.

"Absolutely. Eva, Tanvi and my other friends, will still be a great 'aunts' and 'uncles' to them. But I think this would really mean a lot to Alex."

It was agreed upon, and Bianca picked up the copy of _Ulysses_ for him again, waiting to start where they'd left off, but it was clear there was something else distracting him.

"Do you think they'll like me?" he asked.

Confused, she stared up at him. "What do you mean?"

"The baby," he clarified. His face was pink and he looked down, searching for the right words to explain the feeling. "It just seems… so much more real now. I just want to be a good dad."

Being liked didn't come easy for him. It took a lot of work, to fit in, to belong. For much of his life, being loved had been an unfamiliar sensation. There had always been his mother though, but he'd practically raised himself. Reid had always been able to rely on himself, but soon enough there would be somebody who would have to rely on him for everything.

She laughed, touching his cheek tenderly. "Hey now, I'm supposed to be the one who worries, not you." More seriously she added, "I have complete faith you, my love. You're already so good with children. You'll be the world's best father in no time. Making blanket forts, generating great costume ideas for Halloween and decorating dozens of Christmas cookies – and probably eating half of them. You'll teach them how to memorize the Periodic Table and how to solve mysteries with psychology and geography, and you'll draw all sorts of funny pictures for them. And they'll love you, so much."

It was easy to get caught up in that picture. Sounds of unfamiliar, lighthearted laughter in the hallways. Small hands to hold each of theirs during walks in the park. Children's books and lullabies and someone new to dote on.

"They'll love you, too."

If her faith in him was steadfast, Bianca's faith in herself was far less certain. She looked down, sighing. "I just never imagined I would be a mom, you know? Now I'm trying to reconcile that. I don't know how to be a good parent."

"You know how to love," he replied. "It's what you do best. You'll be there, and you'll listen, and you'll manage to make them smile on even the worst of days. I have no doubt you'll tell the best bedtime stories. You'll be great."

"Tell me about them," she whispered.

Wrapping his arms around her, he shifted so that he could rest his chin on her shoulder, his breath against her ear. "They're roughly the size of a cabbage," he said. "Their eyesight is developing, but it's only about 20/400. They can't see more than a few inches in front of them – much like me when I've forgotten my contacts. And they're getting stronger, almost strong enough to grasp a finger."

"Only the size of a cabbage? I feel huge."

"A large cabbage," he conceded. "You _look_ beautiful."

Just a few more weeks. A few more weeks, and everything would change.

* * *

The phone rang on the other line. Once, twice, three times as he paced back and forth in the kitchen. Finally – "Hello?"

"Hi, Alex. It's Reid."

"It's good to hear from you." Her voice sounded pleasantly surprised over the phone. "How are you? It's been a while."

"It has," he agreed. Blake was busy with her classes, he was busy with the BAU, and the two didn't talk near as often as he would've liked. "I'm doing good. Uh, great, actually. That is - there's something I wanted to ask you about." Nervous, why was he so nervous? It was just a question. A simple request.

"What is it?"

"Um, I know that we only worked together for two years, but I've always felt close with you. And even though you're not with the BAU anymore, you're still like family." Alex was silent, waiting to see where he was going with this. Why were the most important questions always the hardest to get out? "I was wondering if you would want to really be a part of our family."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Could you be a little more concise?"

There he was, tripping over words again. He wanted this to go well, desperately wanted her to say yes. What if she didn't? What if she didn't think their bond was that strong? "How would you feel about being a godmother?"

"That depends… to whom?" she asked.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing desperately that he could just do this face to face and save himself the humiliation of stumbling over the phone. For some reason he thought his request would've made sense by this point. Then again, Alex did always say that she saw little point to exposition, that people should be more direct. It was a sentiment he typically shared, but when he was nervous all the rambling began. "To my child. Bianca's and mine, I mean. We're having a baby. Well, she is, technically? But it's mine, so uh-" Now he was stating the obvious. Who else's child would it have been? It was so much easier to give the news to his team in person, he'd been able to speak clearly then.

"I'm sorry, I'm just talking in circles. Let me try that again. I'm going to be a dad. And we would really like for you to be the child's godmother. If you want to, that is."

"Reid, of course! And congratulations! When did you find out?" Blake sounded ecstatic for him.

"Uh, a few months ago. I'm sorry I didn't call sooner, things have just been so… hectic lately." Most of the team's communication with her had been warnings about Scratch and other escaped killers, as well as a few brief updates on how exactly he'd ended up in jail.

"No need to apologize. I understand. I'm sorry I haven't been able to visit more." Alex was one of those people whose voices rang with authenticity. She didn't waste sentiments that weren't genuine, and to know she wanted to see him made him happy. "Do you know what you're having yet?"

"We decided to just wait, and let it be surprise." Although the pregnancy in itself had been a surprise.

"Well, when should I be expecting this godchild then?" She sounded proud already, and he found himself grinning. Yes, this had been a good choice.

"Sometime in the summer. Early July if all goes well."

"Wonderful. I'm so happy for both of you. And Reid?"

"Yeah?"

Her voice softened. "This kid is going to be the luckiest child in the world to have you for a father." Through the phone, he could practically see her smile, that soft expression she'd given him a few times, when his heart had suggested that this was what it would be like to talk with a mother.

"Thank you, Alex."

* * *

His mother wasn't at the nursing home. Earlier that morning, he had heard her, shouting for him. At first, he was so sure it was a hallucination. He'd just woken up and when he looked outside there was nothing.

Then, as he'd been painting upstairs, he'd heard it again. Reid ran across the hall to their bedroom, overlooking the lawn. It was evening now, but there she was outside the window, in her housecoat. Without thinking, he threw open the window to call to her. No sooner had he done so did another woman appear, stepping out from the door of a dark van. She stared, waved, smirked. Winding her arm around Diana's shoulders in a strangely possessive way. Who was she? He knew her. He knew her from somewhere… sometime…

A gunshot, a high school bathroom, a near-relapse. Vaughn. Lindsey Vaughn. That wasn't right, this wasn't right, Cassie was supposed to be with her.

"Hey!" he shouted.

Lindsey looked right at him. "Come on Diana," she said. "Time to go."

 _Time to go._ Time to go, time to go. _Spencer. Time to go._

That was her. She was the woman he'd seen, who he'd remembered during Tara's cognitive interview. And she had his mother.

By the time he got down the stairs and out the front door, they were gone. So was the van. He could get in his car, try to chase after them, but it was nearly 6 PM. The GPS monitor would alert law enforcement he was breaking curfew and if he got arrested again, who would find his mom?

A panicked phone call was placed to Emily who told him to calm down, implied he'd seen something that wasn't real. "You're not even listening to me!" he shouted. "I know what I saw, all right? Find Lindsey! Find Lindsey, and find a way for me to get out past curfew!" After furiously hanging up the phone, another thought struck him, fear as electric as lightning. He dialed another number.

"Spencer, hey. I'm just finishing up some paperwork at the office but I sh-"

He cut in. "Bianca, listen to me very carefully. Don't panic. But don't leave your office, okay? I can't explain right now, but I need you to stay where you are. Can you do that?"

"Y-yeah. Yeah, I can." No sooner had he gotten off the phone with her did Emily call back.

"We called the nursing home. A nurse named Carol Atkinson was seen on security footage leaving with her. It looks like Lindsey Vaughn. I've got a meeting set up with Judge Frost, we'll be at your house to pick you up in fifteen minutes," she said.

"Good," he breathed. "Just one more thing – Bianca's still at work. Have someone pick her up and take her back the BAU, please. I don't know what's going on but I can't lose her, too."

* * *

The judge cleared the charges. Prints Garcia had found were enough to tie Lindsey back to the crime scene and prove his innocence. Lindsey who had been renting an apartment nearby under a fake name. Lindsey who was romantically involved with the one woman who wanted to hurt him more than anything.

Cat Adams.

The same woman he now found himself face to face with in the Mount Pleasant Women's Correctional Facility.

"Spencie." She tilted her head, smirking at him. He felt the bile rise in his throat.

"Where's my mother?" he demanded.

"I missed you."

"What did you and Lindsey do to her?"

"Stop it. You don't get to walk in here and hiss at me like I'm the criminal. We're going to do this _my_ way," she insisted. Her way apparently involved several rapid fire questions about prison, how he kept himself busy and sane through it. All leading up to her inviting him to see the place she went to keep herself from going crazy. "Come here," she said. Seeing no other option, he leaned in.

"No touching," said JJ from the corner, her voice ice and steel. At least he had her there. If he was alone in this room, Reid wasn't sure he could control himself.

Cat glared at her. "Close your eyes. And when you open them, I want you to look at me like I'm the first woman you saw after being trapped in prison. I want you to look at me the way you look at that short-haired lawyer. You know the one? Brown eyes. Not very tall. What's her name again?" Her voice took on a lulling affect, making it plain that she knew exactly what her name was.

Hands became fists and he had to force himself to exhale through gritted teeth. "Leave her out of this. She has nothing to do with this."

The sound she made was akin to amusement, but laughter had never sounded so cruel. "Oh, but she has everything to do with it. It was going to be her, actually. That I took." The blood in his veins, boiling with rage, suddenly ran cold. "Lindsey waited outside her office. But guess who turned up with her? Your little bodyguard. Derek Morgan. The same one who helped you trick me at the restaurant."

Thank god for Morgan. They had planned to meet at her office early in the morning so she could go over draft grant proposals for his organization. Damian's Place, he was going to call it. If they had chosen another day, if he hadn't arrived at the same time… no, he couldn't afford to think about what-ifs now. Bianca was safe at the BAU with his team.

"I could've tried another day, but to be honest… I was getting tired of waiting. It's awful boring in prison, Spencie. You must remember. So let me make things interesting. Let me show you where I go."

Reid searched her eyes for any clue as to what she wanted. This was all one grand ploy, a power play, an act in which Cat was simultaneously star and director. "Why should I do anything you say?"

Cat flashed that cutting smirk once more. "Because," she said, inching closer to him. "If you don't, you'll never see your mother again. And if that's not enough? Well, I haven't forgotten the job that brought us together. You wanted me to kill your pregnant wife. Of course, you didn't _have_ a pregnant wife then. But wait!" Her eyes lit up. "You do now!" Of all the cases he had expected would someday come back to haunt him, all the things he'd said, he never once thought that would be it. It had been so small, so irrelevant. Now, that lie was his reality. The last time he went up against Cat, he'd felt all but invincible. Suddenly, he had everything to lose.

"I can still finish that job, Spencie. Anytime I want. So, close. Your. Eyes."

He did exactly as she asked.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Start with the fluff, ease into the angst. I promised Cat would make an appearance, and here she is! Season 12, for all the curveballs it threw me for, has worked surprisingly well with the plot I'd had in mind. I know it hasn't fully aired in some areas, so be warned that there are spoilers here and in the chapters ahead. Because of the nature of the Cat Adams scene the narrative may jump around a bit in a way that may be confusing if you haven't seen it?  
**

 **Thank you to ellie-wright101297, Hxart, nathaliecousty, Damons-Slytherin-Princess, bntjammer, Wearegolden19, and amandajeanrhodes for following/favoriting this fic!  
**

 **And a big thanks to those who took the time to leave a review: tannerose5** (ah thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed it so much! Thankfully they're together again!), **dianakotori** (wow, thanks! That's quite the complement! I decided to follow the writers in Season 12 and bypass a trial, which admittedly was a confusing scene, but I guess makes sense in the context of the episode?), **and Love-Fiction-2017** (thanks!) **. It means so much to me and I love hearing from all of you!**

 **I'm trying to take advantage of the free time I have while on break to get this story as close to finished as possible.**

 **See you for the 50th chapter!**


	50. 50) What You Deserve

Interrogating Cat was frustrating and exhausting. She kept leading him on tangents, trying to see how far she could push him until he gave in, how far she could bend him until he cracked. She had the upper hand, but he had everything on the line. This was a war of attrition; he just had to wear her down until she made a mistake. But she'd had months to plan out every little detail, and she didn't intend to go down easily. One look in her eyes would tell anyone this was the most fun she'd had in a long time.

Reid was tired of playing her games. He wanted answers, he wanted to get out of here, he wanted all of this to be over. Leaning across the table, he narrowed his eyes at her.

"You want me to admit that I am actually in love with you," he said. That had to be it, love. Something she hadn't volunteered, and something he wouldn't want to admit. Something she could capitalize on.

Cat just rolled her eyes. "Don't get me wrong, I love my fairy tales – clearly - as much as the next girl, but I'm not delusional."

Said the woman trying to force him to understand her fantasy. If the situation weren't so serious he might be tempted to laugh. "Are you sure about that?"

"Very sure," she retorted. "So sure, in fact, that I had Lindsey leave a clue for you in your little scrapbook your mom keeps." It had been hours since he and JJ had gone through the things in his mother's room. What was the message? There had only been one thing out of place, a picture of a tightrope walker with his face when he was young pasted on it. On the back in red pen, _XX-XY._ That had to be what she was referring to, but what on earth did it mean? "I couldn't have you come all the way down here and make a guess until I was positive. That is…" She paused and looked down, resting her hands over her stomach in a manner that had become startlingly familiar, "until I tested positive."

Wait. That couldn't be right. Reid furrowed his eyebrows, trying to make sense of this. "What, you're pregnant?" Even has he said the words, they didn't feel right. Something was wrong. He could feel it, a strange hollowness in the pit of his stomach. There was something he was missing.

The game, he was losing. Cat could tell, and she was relishing this moment of power over him. She flipped her hair, leaning in slowly, a smirk spreading over her face. The hollowness became a chill.

" _We're_ pregnant," she said. This was a lie. It had to be a lie; it was just a part of her game. He searched her eyes for any tells, any giveaways to reassure him. All he found was a confident, cruel, grin as she waited for his reaction.

He shook his head. "No." It was all he could manage.

" _Yes_ ," she said. "Mazel tov." He stood from the chair, nearly knocking it over in his haste. He needed space to sort out what he was feeling. Denial. Rage. Confusion. Fear.

Reid began to pace. "It's not possible. Even if you are pregnant, the baby's not mine."

Cat remained completely calm. "Except for the part where it is."

"You've been in prison."

"So have you."

"And we've never-"

"I know." Back and forth they went, each question allowing Cat to gain just a little bit more of the upper hand. Finally, she begged him to ask her how she'd done it. With no leverage left, he complied. He asked. And she spun a tale of sending Lindsey to Mexico, dosing him with drugs, causing him to lose. Specific instructions to seduce him.

"I told her to pretend to be Maeve."

His heart dropped. Lost for words, he swallowed hard. There was no way. There was just no way.

"You know, Maeve Donovan?" she continued. "The love of your life. Who had her brains blown out right in front of you before you two could even kiss. So dark. Yet so useful." It couldn't be true. This couldn't be happening. Cat dropped her hands back to her stomach once more. "I wonder, what would your wife say if she knew about this? Oh, what _is_ her name? She's so forgettable. Beatrice? Bella?"

"Bianca," he whispered, his voice breaking.

"Right. _Bianca_. What would she say if she knew you'd chosen Maeve over her. What will happen when she finds out she's not the only one carrying your child? Will she cry? Will she hate you?" His hands became fists, he bit his lip so hard he thought he might draw blood. Cat leaned back in the chair, satisfied with his expression. "Oh, Spencie. What will she do when she finds out you cheated on her with a dead girl? That she's just a consolation prize?"

It was impossible. It didn't happen. There was just no way.

And yet… that time in Mexico. He couldn't _remember._

* * *

JJ had patched them in to hear the conversation. Other than Emily and Garcia, the rest of the team had cleared the conference room.

"JJ, is it true?" Emily asked.

Silence over the phone, then, "There's a test in her medical record. She's three months along."

Bianca felt her breath catch in her throat. Nobody was breathing, nobody dared move, to disturb the universe at all. Slowly she backed out of the room, walking towards Emily's office in a slow daze. It felt like the Twilight Zone, as if she had left this world and entered some foreign one, lightyears away. The chair was beneath her before she even processed that she'd sat down.

How could this be happening? How could this be real? This was a nightmare, surely. It couldn't be real. But there was the test, the indisputable evidence. Here they were, about to build their family – one thing that had terrified her – and now everything was being twisted and torn. As if this hadn't been hard enough. He hadn't cheated on her, not technically. But he'd been with someone else. Or had he? Was it true? Was any of it true? And if it was, what did that mean?

Over the years, she had finally allowed herself to believe she was worthy of being loved, and by someone as incredible as him. She no longer doubted that she came first in his heart. Time and time again he'd proven that, hadn't he? He chose her. There was no reason he had to stay with her, she'd made it clear he owed her nothing, but he picked her. He married her. He gave her _The Narrative of John Smith_ , promising to give her his whole heart, keep nothing from her. He gave her all of him. Even gave up the chance to be a parent when she said that wasn't what she wanted. Then stood by her when everything changed and suddenly they _were_ going to be parents.

Didn't he love her?

Or had it all been make-believe? Was she just a replacement for someone he couldn't have? Saltwater stung at her eyes, she was too emotional to think about this right now. It was all too muddled to see anything clearly. God, she just wanted to know it was real. That she was his and he was hers and that he wouldn't trade that for anything.

"Bianca?" It was Emily, in the doorway.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping away her tears. "I just – um, I just need a minute."

"I understand." The unit chief quietly shut the door, leaving her alone with her thoughts. _The love of your life,_ Cat had said. Was that the truth? Had she and Spencer had something better? All those old doubts coming to the surface, rising from the depths in which she had buried them. Not smart enough, not accomplished enough, not pretty enough, not good enough. Not enough for him. For anyone.

Here they were, about to start a family, and suddenly the very foundations of that family were being called into question. And what of Cat Adams? She was pregnant. If it was Spencer's, what would that mean? Their baby would have a half-sibling whose mother was a psychopathic killer. Cat's imprisonment would mean someone else would have to raise that child. Knowing Spencer, he would want to. Would they raise them together? If this was true, could they really be a happy family? They would do their best, she was sure. But it wouldn't be the same, knowing that given the opportunity, he would have chosen someone else. Never had she expected herself to be in this position. It was unimaginable that Spencer would cheat on her, because the only other woman he loved was a ghost.

And yet.

Bianca took a deep breath, trying to quell her sobs. She needed to figure out if this was even real. Could it be possible? Did Spencer love her?

A profiler would look at the behavior, the facts.

He had apologized to Maeve when high. He had broken down after her death. Pushed Bianca away when she first returned. But he'd also called her first, asked to meet her for coffee. Then continued to call. He'd held on so tight to her in that hospital bed, and promised he didn't want to leave her. In a thunderstorm, he made a blanket fort and read her to sleep to make her feel safe. At a wedding, he asked for her to give him the courage he needed to make a speech. He had introduced her to his mother. He was willing to accept her family troubles. He was willing to give up being a dad to be with her.

If he was merely looking for a placeholder, if nobody could measure up to Maeve, couldn't he have chosen anyone? Someone whose brother wasn't dangerous. Someone who had always wanted children. Someone who didn't struggle with their own deep-rooted doubts and insecurities.

She needed affirmation, reassurance, patience. He always gave it to her. Waited for her, made space for her, let her know he would be there for her. He made it clear that she was worthy of his love, that he wanted her by his side no matter what that meant.

And there was all the time they'd had before the gap. When he had come to confess to her on her couch all his shame and all his past so she would know who he was. When he'd driven her out to see the stars and bought snickerdoodles to make her smile. Her family had come to visit, and he had stood by her.

There was every text or call to check in on her while he was away. There was every smile he gave her, with an expression she never saw him look at anyone else with. The fact that he kept her books, memorized them all by heart. The first time they had sex, how gentle and patient he was with her.

Time and time again he had chosen her. Let her into parts of his heart he kept hidden from everyone else. Shifted his life so it fit better with hers.

It could have been anyone. If he wanted someone smarter, someone prettier, he could have found someone else. Anyone else. But he _chose_ her. He asked her to marry him while recovering from a gunshot wound in a hospital bed because he couldn't bear to wait another minute more.

She exhaled, just as the door opened up again and Emily stepped back into the room, Penelope just behind her. Emily sat in the chair opposite her. "Listen, Bianca, I hate to do this, but I have to ask… Is it at all possible that this child could be Spencer's?"

He chose her. "No," she said firmly, surprising herself. "No. He wouldn't."

Emily sighed. "I know that it's difficult to consider, but I just have to make sure-"

"He loves me." Her voice shook, but she believed every word. "Spencer loves me more than that."

"I second that!" added Penelope. "I know we have to make sure it's unlikely before we start looking at other options, but I just don't think it's possible." Looking pointedly at Emily she said, "I was here for all of it. Their whole story. I've watched it play out, and I _know_ he loves her too much to let that happen."

"Okay," Emily said. "That's all I need. We'll start looking into alternatives. Guards, and other connections within the prisons. Bianca, I promise you, we will get to the bottom of this."

* * *

Reid hurled the folder at the window, hearing JJ gasp behind him. He ran his hands over his face, trying to tune out Cat, who was still talking from inside the room. But then something she said caught his attention.

"You can't blame yourself, you know. Your first love was perfect. Then she died, and you just married the next girl you met. It's a shame, we could've been good together. But hey, at least now you can stop pretending you love her."

Proof. This was proof that she had no idea what she was talking about. Cat didn't know that he'd met Bianca years before that. Had no knowledge of how she'd accepted the darkest parts of himself when he told her over tea, or the way she had managed to make him feel comfortable – so much more than comfortable – in his own skin. Bianca had loved him through migraines and losses, she'd written him a whole book just to say she still cared. Never had he truly stopped loving her. That love had simply changed forms over time. She found him when he'd lost himself. There was nobody else in the world who could do that.

She was never his second choice, some sort of consolation prize. Words failed when he tried to describe what it did to his heart to look across a crowded room and see her. When he was away on a case, all he wanted was to hear her voice. She was always on his mind. After a rough day, a hug from her could put everything back into place. For someone who wasn't fond of physical touch, it had surprised him how much he craved to hold her, to be held by her.

He'd never imagined someone could love him the way she did – so wholly, so unconditionally.

She was just as driven when it came to her work, and she understood how hard it was to spend the day around heavy subjects. He loved the way should create beauty from pain, using her words to tell the most amazing stories. He loved how he didn't have to _be_ anything around her. Not an agent or a genius or a hero. Just himself. And yet she made him feel like he could be _everything_. She was the one he wanted to come home to every night. Run his hands through her short hair, look into those warm brown eyes and see everything he needed right there.

He'd never imagined that he could love someone else so unconditionally.

For her, he would have given up anything. If she wasn't ready, he would wait. If she didn't want children, he would be happy as a godfather. If she asked him to leave the BAU, he would. If she needed him, he would be there, no questions asked.

Bianca was the _love_ of his _life_. He loved his life because she was a part of it.

Cat was lying. There was just no way. It wouldn't have worked, he wouldn't have done that. It wasn't true. There was no way it was true.

* * *

"Spencer!" His mother's voice, a panicked scream. _She's still alive._

"Mom! Mom, are you okay?"

"I don't know." She sounded so scared, so scared and then – her voice, crying, and a gunshot.

He grabbed the phone out of Cat's hand. "Mom!"

"Gotta go." Lindsey's voice, and another gunshot. No no no no. No not this, not now.

"What the hell was that?" he spat. Cat was calm and it was making him furious. "Was that a signal? A prearranged signal to kill my mother?" He stooped down, getting in her face. "Tell me the truth!"

"I am!"

"Tell me the _truth!_ " he screamed.

"I _am!_ " she shouted right back at him. Her eyes were angry now. Good. This was want he wanted. Some sort of emotion from her. He couldn't stand her apathy. "You want to know the truth? Your mother is an Alzheimer's-ridden moron who's getting dumber by the day and if she's dead, it's your fault!"

Something in him snapped. He pushed the table out of the way, closed the space between them and dragged Cat out of the chair, throwing her against the wall, his hands around her neck. "I'm going to kill you," he hissed. Someone was pulling at his arm, shouting his name, but he couldn't hear. It was just him and Cat, her dark eyes looking up at him, _daring_ him to do it. Cold eyes. The skin of her neck warm as he tightened his grip around it.

"Spence!" Hands tightening around his arms. "Spence, she's pregnant!"

Cold. Dark. Nothing but rage and fury and hatred.

She'd traumatized him and had him drugged after he'd been clean for three years. She'd sent him to prison, nearly gotten him killed. It was her fault his mom was missing. Maybe even dead. It was her fault he nearly lost his job. It was her fault he'd missed out on four weeks with Bianca when she needed him.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Spence she's pregnant!" JJ's voice finally reached him, as she yanked him off of her. "Stop it!" He let go, stumbling backwards, blinking rapidly. Cat raised a hand to her throat, staring at him with something like glee. He glanced at JJ, whose face held only fear. What was he doing? Oh god, what was he doing? The door was still open, and he fled through it, running to the end of the hallway where he collapsed in the dark.

Was this what Cat wanted to show him? That he was becoming a monster? This game was a mirror meant to reflect the worst parts of himself. Was that all he had left? Perhaps he'd only been pretending after leaving Milburn. Imagining that after everything he'd been through, he could be a normal person with a normal life. That he could have a happy ending. A happy family. He didn't deserve that. He couldn't go back. He couldn't be a good father or a good husband.

When his hands were around Cat's neck, he wanted to kill her. How could he go back? How could he go back to that little blue house now? He had no right that happiness if he was so willing to take not one life, but two. If JJ hadn't stopped him, he would have done it.

And there she was now, walking down the hall. "There was a gas station explosion. But the only victim was male. So whatever Lindsey did, we have to assume your mom is still alive." Reid said nothing, just stared up at her. JJ took a seat on the dusty floor beside him. "Hey."

Her voice was gentle, and he looked away. "I'm really – I'm really scared that this is who I am now," he said.

"No, don't say that." She inched closer to him. "You did what you had to do to survive. You did what it took to come home. Where you were needed. You came home to the people who needed you. _That's_ who you are."

* * *

His mother was okay. She was safe. It was over. JJ stood in the doorway, wearing an exhausted smile. It was time to go. To go home.

"We do deserve each other, by the way." Cat sat back down in the chair, folding her hands. "You guessed right." She looked up at him, waiting for him to say something. As though it were all just for fun, and they were friends somehow.

Reid offered her an unwavering stare. "You lied, by the way. You were gonna kill my mother regardless."

Something in her eyes shifted, like the night sky freezing over. When she spoke, the playfulness in her voice was gone. It was hollow. "Yeah, I think you really liked hurting those men." Despite being on the verge of tears, her lip curled upwards in a bitter smirk. "And once you cross that line? You can't ever go back."

The words struck him, but he held his gaze. Was it true? Did she speak a truth withheld until the most opportune moment, or was she simply a defeated woman grasping at straws? Maybe she was right. For just a second, he believed it. After all, it was far easier to believe that he deserved Cat, after everything he'd done, than to believe he deserved someone like Bianca. That he was worthy of someone so good, and all the bright things that their future could hold. Someone like him, with all his mistakes and flaws, all the demons he carried around, he might just ruin it. Touch it only to see it go up in flames.

She deserved better. And maybe it would be better if he didn't go back.

 _But_ , something in his heart reminded him, _she chose you_. _She wants you._

Bianca did choose him, didn't she? Time after time, even when she had other options. She didn't have to pick him from the crowd of faces in New York, or stay with him after coming to DC. She didn't have to help him after returning or stay with him after the relapse. That was a _choice_ she made. And she was smart and kind and honest, of that he had no doubts. He respected her choices, believed them to be good, so didn't it follow that must've been a good choice, too?

Time after time, they found each other. No matter what happened, they would always return to each other. Would always make that choice.

They made each other better. They needed each other. And if he didn't deserve Bianca – if the world looked at him and said he had no right to be with her– well, he was going to spend his whole life proving he did. He was going to be a man she could be proud of. The person she deserved.

In one fluid motion he stepped back towards the table, kneeled down, and grabbed Cat's wrist. Reid forced himself to meet her eyes. They were cold, dark. There was no truth in them. He leaned in just a little further, proving that he wasn't afraid of her anymore.

"Watch me," he whispered.

* * *

They were back now. She could see through the gaps in the conference room blinds as they emerged from the elevator. Given how shaken Diana had been, she figured it was best to let them have their reunion first. Bianca sat on the edge of the roundtable, twisting her ring in anxious circles. It felt like ages before the door finally opened, and he stood before her in the doorway. A look of relief came over his face, but when he stepped towards her, she held her hands up.

"I'm sorry. I just – can you just give me a second? I just need to finish sorting out all these feelings," she said. So much had happened in the last twelve hours. A kidnapping, an explosion, Spencer attacking Cat in a prison cell. That interrogation alone had been a rollercoaster, and she knew now for a fact that Cat's baby wasn't his, that the whole thing had been a lie. But that hadn't changed the terror she felt in the moment. Had it been true, it would have shattered her heart. It had been difficult enough after Maeve, when she was afraid of forcing a selfish love on him. And after the relapse when she feared he only loved her because she was there.

The game was over. Cat was done tormenting them. What happened in that room was outside normal circumstances, that wasn't who he was. And he hadn't cheated on her. He had not slept with someone else, would not be having a child with anyone else. Their future was secure, and their love was intact. What they had was stronger than Cat Adams had anticipated.

With a deep breath, she looked up at him once more. Spencer had closed the door, and stood there gazing at her as he anxiously rocked back and forth on his heels. His hair was a tangled mess, he was in need of a shave – as he had been for the last few weeks. Those eyes of his looked so tired. He was weary. With that observation, any feelings still muddling her heart evaporated, and she was overwhelmed with the desire to be close to him.

Tears welled up in her eyes and she said, "Please, come here." No sooner had the words left her mouth did he cross the room and wrap his arms around her.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, kissing the top of her head, and she could tell he was crying too. It had been a hard night for both of them.

"It's okay."

"No, it's not." The chair closest to them was pulled out, and he took a seat in it, readjusting so that he was right in front of her. Setting her feet in his lap, he then took her hands in his and met her eyes. "I know you heard the things Cat said to me. But I want you – I _need_ you – to know that I have never thought of you as second best. I don't love you because I feel obligated to. You are _the best_ thing that has ever happened to me. I love you, not because of everything you've done, but for everything you are. You are the light of my life, my whole world. And I wouldn't change that for anything. I need you to know that."

"I do, my love," she said.

"I'm sorry, for everything that happened in that room tonight. I never wanted to scare you, and I never wanted to hurt you. I don't want you to ever doubt how much I love you. Bianca Reid, I want to be a man you can be proud of. I want to be a good husband and a good father and-"

The litany of wishes stopped abruptly when she cupped his face with her hands. "You are. Spencer, you are… the best, most kind, most wonderful man I have ever known. I am always proud of you. I'm proud to know you and to love you. And I _love_ you so, so much." She leaned in to kiss him, before wrapping him in another embrace as she softly stroked his hair. They sat there, letting minutes slip by that she never wanted to end. To feel so loved, and to be able to love someone so deeply, it was everything. Given the opportunity, she would have stayed in his arms forever.

The clearing of a throat was an unwelcome intrusion. Spencer lifted his head, and they turned to see Grant Anderson standing in the doorway. "Um, Agent Reid, I'm sorry but… something's happened."

Before he could respond, Garcia dashed in behind him, laptop in her hand and face pale. "They're gone… the signal it just… I called Matt Simmons but I don't know what to do!"

Spencer stood from the chair, glancing back at her with an expression that both apologized and asked permission. "Go," Bianca said. They were her family too. "Be safe."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Hello! Welcome back! This chapter's format was quite a bit different, with all the shifting scenes, but I felt there was a lot of relevant information from the episode I wanted to include. After rewatching _Red Light_ , I was actually really excited for all the opportunities I had to work it into the plot of this story, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on that.**

 **Also - this is the 50th chapter! What? How? Have I really been writing all this? It's been quite the process, but I feel like I've grown as a writer through it. I'm also very grateful to all of you who I've met through it! Seeing your usernames pop up, whether it's a follow or a review or a message, it makes me so happy to see! Your feedback and support means the world to me. And I still** **can't believe that you've read _fifty whole chapters_ of this story. Wow. THANK YOU.**

 **And of course, extra special thank yous are in order to Elizabetch, Belle Tris Grey, Ponikasia23, havasu25, abitoflightreading, demonman21, NeonBunny, Kamrita, and Jenasys Loveless Lovecraft for following/favoriting this story!**

 **And super special thank yous to rebelforcauses** (thank you! And oh my gosh, that's such a long time! What a champ!), **Love-Fiction-2017** (thank you, as always, Louise!), **and dianakotori** (thanks so much! Not mean at all, haha, I'm glad I was able to include some sweet scenes in the middle of the angst/drama! I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations!) **for your kind words and advice and continued support. These reviews mean so much to me!**

 **Wow. 50. SO MANY WORDS. THANK YOU FOR READING THEM. With that said, we're almost there... the finish line is within sight! I hope you'll stay with me as this fic comes to a close.**


	51. 51) A New Constellation

Scratch was gone. Peter Lewis was finally dead, but it had come at a cost – the loss of Stephen Walker. They had all stood at the funeral to pay their respects to a team member gone far, far too soon. Bianca's heart broke to see his wife, Monica, trying to be strong for their two children. That so easily could have been her. Inevitably, Will must have been thinking the same thing. There was so much at stake each time the BAU went to save the world. It was a small comfort to her that Reid wouldn't be back in the field for a few more weeks.

As her due date drew ever closer, Bianca had finally taken off of work per her doctor's request, and most of her days were spent on bed rest. Doing nothing was far more exhausting than she'd expected it to be, but Spencer was only at the office a five days out of the week, and was always home before dinner. It was for that reason that it caught her off guard when he called one evening to tell her he'd be home later than usual. Given that the Bureau was reviewing his performance, she assumed there were some extra tests to be run, maybe some paperwork that needed to be done. She kept herself busy with _War and Peace_ as the sky grew darker.

At the approach of his car, she hurried to finish her page, closing the book just as he walked through the door. "Welcome home," she called from the couch. He set his bag on the kitchen counter before coming into the living room.

"How's bedrest treating you today?" he asked. There was a trace of an apology in his voice, knowing how much she hated having to stay put all day.

She shrugged. "Still boring. Tolstoy is keeping me company at least. I've just gotten to the part where Sonya discovers Natasha is planning to elope with Anatole."

"Sonya is good," he said, smiling.

"Natasha is young, and Andrei isn't here," she laughed. "The musical definitely helps to keep all the names straight." With one hand she reached out to him, and he laced his fingers through hers. "I did miss you, though."

Gently, he squeezed her hand. "I missed you too."

"How is it that we always manage to end up apart?" she asked jokingly. "Whenever you have to stay at home, I have to go somewhere; and whenever I need to stay home, you have to work."

It was meant in jest, knowing full well that they would spend more time together if their jobs allowed it. Raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, he replied, "The universe must be conspiring against us. But I'm here now. And the sky is so clear tonight. Do you think you feel up for venturing to the back porch to see the stars?"

Never one to refuse the stars, she nodded, and he offered his other hand to help her up off the couch. They walked slowly to the porch and sat side by side on the chair they kept there. He had been right; the sky was a magnificent sight.

"Now we're just missing some Golden Star Tea," she said. That beautiful night still lingered in her mind, when he'd made the whole Milky Way into a magic trick just for her. He grinned, and she inched a little closer to him. Their gazes moved upwards and she knew from the quiet that settled around them that they were both thinking of all the times they'd looked up together, staring at the stars. Those bright, gleaming dots in the sky, so full of hope in the darkness. Constants in the sky that they had always shared.

Finally, Spencer broke the silence. "The, uh, the Bureau said I could be reinstated today." Eyes wide, she pulled her gaze away from the swirling stars to look at him. The announcement caught her off guard. "Emily offered me my job back. Said I could start as soon as I wanted."

"Th-that's fantastic," she said. "So what did you tell them?" The offer had come sooner than she'd expected, but she knew it was a good sign. The Bureau trusted him again, and the damage done to his reputation was finally being repaired.

He paused ,wetting his lips. "I told them… I told them I didn't want the job."

"Wait, _what?_ "

"I'm leaving the BAU. I told Emily I'd stay on and help out in the office until the baby comes, but I won't be going in the field. I'll be doing a lot of paperwork and working with Garcia on cases, but I'll be home every night."

"You don't have to do that," she gasped. The conversation they'd had months ago at Morgan's house came back to her. "You don't heave to leave because of me."

Spencer set his hand over hers. "This is my choice. I've thought about this really hard, and this is what I want to do. After being in prison – after being accused of a crime myself, it just doesn't feel the same; and I know how dangerous this job is getting. I love the future we're building, and I don't want to lose that." A soft smile spread over his face. "I want to be with you. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to cook with dinner with you even though I'm terrible at it and I'll probably end up burning something."

At that, she couldn't help but laugh, and he chuckled too. "I want to be here," he continued. "I want to raise our child together. I want to be around in all the ways my father wasn't."

Neither of them had parents that had been around in the way they needed, no family members they could rely on. They grew up fast and alone. That he wanted this to be different, it pulled at her heart, and she fought back tears. "But the team… they're your family."

"I'll miss it," he admitted. Spencer leaned back, his eyes on the sky once more. Stars above that had watched over them for years. "For a long time, this job was my life. It brought me to all my friends. It led me to you. But my life is so much more now. My life is here."

"Staying home all day would drive you crazy, though." He was never one to just sit around. Boredom inevitably set in with a mind like his.

"I talked to Alex. There's a position open in Georgetown's psychology department, and I applied for it. I won't know for sure until next week, but things are looking really good. And I'd only be teaching two days a week. After the baby is older, I could do more."

It was all coming together. She could tell by his voice, he meant it; moreover he wasn't upset about it. There was a genuine excitement there. He wanted to stay close to home, and be a dad. No more early morning phone calls, no more late night arrivals at the end of a case. She wouldn't spend days at a time in an empty house or spend every evening worrying about his safety. This was their future. The monsters would stay in the past.

"You're serious. You're really serious about this."

"Absolutely," he said. "I've had an incredible 15 years with the BAU, but it's time. This is where I want to be." Spencer stood from his chair, moving to kneel in front of her own. He set his hands on the curve of her belly and leaned in close to speak. "Recent studies suggest that at 32 weeks, you might be able to recognize my voice. I know that I won't be as familiar as your mom, but I - I want you to know that I'm going to be around for both of you, okay? She's working really hard right now, and I don't want her to do this alone. I'm going to be around to see you take your first steps and help you learn your first words. All the big things and the little things. I promise I'll be around for all of it. And I'm really, really excited to meet you. So when you're ready, I'll be here, okay?"

Lips met fabric as he kissed her stomach. Bianca pushed away the tears at the corner of her eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked, a thin line of worry on his forehead.

"Nothing," she assured him. "Nothing is wrong. I just…" How could she put it into words? It was as though she could see their whole future stretching out before them now. Everything was coming together. Spencer would be a professor and work regular house. She would be able to continue her work. He would come home safe at night. They would both be there for the child that was quickly becoming more real by the day. How could she ask for a better person to share this life with? A good husband, a good friend, a good man. And he was going to be the best father, there was no doubt in her mind.

"It's just that everything is so perfect right now. I don't want to forget that."

Spencer stood up, his expression tender. "We should go inside," he said. "It's getting late. You look tired." It didn't take much profiling to see that. He helped her up, but before stepping through the door, she glanced up at the sky one last time, staring at the patterns of light.

All the constellations that had come together from the infinite number of possible connections in the universe. All the galaxies and nebulas, pinpoints of ash and dust drawn together by gravity and circumstance. In parallel she could see, there in the darkness of the heavens, all the constellation of their lives. All the cosmic circumstances that had to come together for them to be here. All the odds against them, to have risen from the dust. Call it luck, call it coincidence. Call it gravity or solar winds. It was something she felt much deeper than that, ten thousand little points of light that could have gone in any other direction. All of them guiding her here, to this moment, with him.

It was bigger than them. As she followed him back inside, slowly up the staircase to their bedroom, she was okay with that.

"Goodnight, my angel," he whispered as they lay beneath the blankets.

The unknown surrounded them, but it was a comforting thing. Everything was about to change. After the year they'd had, she was learning to be okay with that. This was an addition, not a subtraction.

Another little star in the sky. Another feature of their constellation, a map of all the bright places in their world.

* * *

Life was clear, simpler than it had been in years. Spencer was home almost every night, unless there was an emergency and Garcia needed his help. When he was around, everything was brighter. He would play songs on the piano, the same little keyboard he'd bought on a whim. Mostly Mozart, he said it was the best thing for babies to listen to. It didn't matter to her what he played, she was happy just to have him there. Many afternoons were passed with a pen in her hand, as she scribbled down poems. She figured there was enough for a third book, if her publisher would have it. _To That One_ had done quite well in the narrow poetry market.

Her first book had been about finding a place in the world, her second about losing it. This one, she hoped, would be about creating new spaces altogether, putting down roots the way she never had before.

Morgan dropped by occasionally, as she worked with him to get Damian's Place off the ground. She tried not to think about what would have happened if she hadn't been with him that day, when Cat and Lindsey decided to take their revenge. Being confined to the house, she stayed sane with regular Skype sessions and phone calls with her closest friends. Eva made a point of calling her once a week to check in on her, knowing how difficult the last weeks of pregnancy could be.

There would be work waiting for her at Darcy and Alam when she returned from maternity leave, and she'd learned that the ACLU had reached out to the firm seeking a lawyer to consult on high impact civil rights cases in DC, and her boss had recommended her to them. If all went well, she would be doing work for them on the side, and slowly edging her way up in legal advocacy work.

After the dizzying storm that had been tearing their world apart since Mr. Scratch escaped prison, it was a startling change to find themselves at peace, content in the life that they were building. There were worries, naturally. The baby, the birth. Spencer was nervous about lecturing on his own on a regular basis, and she'd offered to let him practice his speaking with her. Seated on their bed, she would listen as he ran through the last guest lecture he'd given, one he still had memorized.

He had a habit of standing too still as he talked. Eyes focused off to the side, he hardly looked at her, and his tone stayed a little too even. "And that's how the field moved away from using physical defects as the basis for deviance, and began to focus on behavior and mental processes. Now, that shift-"

Bianca lifted her hand, causing him to pause and nod at her, permitting her to ask a question. "Will this be on the final exam?"

He frowned. "We're only five minutes into the first class, surely you can't be thinking about the final already?"

"What if I am?"

"Well, then yes," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Life is the final exam, and everything is going to be on it. When you're working in the field, whether as a therapist or a FBI agent, you're going to need to know this information. Now, in the twentieth century, that shift led psychologists to speculate on mental defects or disorders that could be the cause of deviant and criminal behavior. Freud suggested such offenses were committed due to feelings unconscious guilt that criminals were attempting to manage. His theory of the unconscious mind wa-"

Raising her hand once more, she asked, "How did Freud develop his theory of the unconscious mind? And hasn't most of his work been disproven."

"If you'd completed the readings, you would know that," he said stiffly. "And while many of Freud's psychoanalytic practices didn't hold up to scrutiny, it's important to understand the major developments in the field."

"I just don't see the merit in his work. Just because Freud had a thing for his mother doesn't mean we all wanted to sleep with our parents."

From where he stood on the floor, he began to pull at his fingers, closing his eyes briefly. "Thank you for your insight, but let's stay on subject, here." It was clear he was trying to remember his place in the lecture. "Freud's theory of the unconscious mind was…"

"I just have one more question. Will I get a higher grade if I sleep with the professor?"

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Absolutely not."

Trying her best to pout, she asked, "Not even if I'm married to you, Professor Reid?"

"It's _Doctor_ Reid."

"Doctor Reid," she purred, batting her eyelashes at him with a playful smirk until he glared at her.

He crossed his arms. "I don't see how you'll manage to get through this class if you insist on interrupting me and… distracting me."

Bianca laughed, holding out her arms to him. "Come here, _Doctor._ " Although begrudgingly, he complied, and she wrapped her fingers around his. "I'll behave, I promise. But you have to loosen up a little, you're so stiff up there. You haven't lectured on your own in a long time, and you're going to have all sorts of students. Class clowns, introverts, people who know nothing, and people who think they know everything. I know you're nervous, but don't let them see that. Just roll with the punches, and keep your head up."

Before his arrest, he'd given plenty of guest lectures, but they were almost always with another team member, usually Rossi or Alex. In that situation, he only saw students briefly. As a professor, he would be on his own, managing students that he saw on a regular basis. It was going to be a challenge for him.

Sighing, he leaned in, shifting his hands to the small of her back. "If I'm this anxious just thinking about it, how am I going to get through an actual class?"

"You have three months to prepare. Don't worry. I'll listen to you practice. And you can rehearse lectures to the baby once they're here. I know it's stressful, but it's exciting too, isn't it?"

Spencer smiled at her. "Being a professor or being a father?" he joked.

"Both?" Time was going by quickly, and she found herself more exhausted than ever, as they made sure the nursery was finished and the house was suitable for a newborn.

He took a seat at the top of the bed, back against the headboard. "Come here." With care, she scooted back until she could rest her head in his lap, her feet dangling off the edge of the mattress. One hand ran gently through her hair while his other trailed down her side, slipping under the hem of her baggy Georgetown Law sweatshirt. The warmth of his fingers against the skin of her ever-rounder belly made her shiver.

"They're as big as a butternut squash," Spencer told her. "Their lungs are nearly done developing, and they can definitely hear our conversations now. They'll be here soon."

"It is a little scary," she admitted.

"A little exciting, too?"

She closed her eyes, letting herself focus on the soothing motion of his hands, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the occasional small flutters she could feel in her abdomen.

"Yeah. It is."

* * *

Now that he wasn't traveling, his nights were far more consistent. He was there at home, close enough for her to touch, for her to wake him up just after midnight, shaking his shoulder lightly. "Spencer. Spencer, wake up. We need to go."

"Go?" The question came out in a mumble. It was still dark, why was she awake? There wasn't a case, he would've heard his phone ring if there was. "Go where?"

"The hospital. _Now_." Her words were followed by ragged breaths and he sat up, suddenly very awake. Hastily, he felt for his glasses and put them on.

"What? The average pregnancy lasts 40 weeks; it's only been 36 weeks and five days! Are you sure?"

In the dim light of the moon, he could barely make out her figure. Bianca winced, her hand flying to her stomach. "I'm sure. We need to go."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Thank you to jo94enw, InterestSparked, mrs Tall Blonde and Dead, LenaLena2000, Edis, cece12, ahart1223, mrs** **morgan 35, kamikaze, Always VG16, KindaBlue, debbzpurple14, harryparry, BreakfastXP, Chewbecka, angelic13demon, bloodychu, and sparkleerose for following/favoriting this story!**

 **And thank you so incredibly much to OctoberOpal** (so so soon!), **dianakotori** (Thank you so much! I'm so glad you enjoyed this chapter and that I was able to convey those emotions! There will definitely be a scene with Reid and Morgan. I'm so disappointed they didn't give us one in the show, considering he's been back twice now!), **Love-Fiction-2018** (thanks!), **EclipseRosen** (haha I love your love for the state of Ohio!), **Cee** (oh wow, thanks! I'm really glad you think liked that! It was so much fun to thread this story into their world), **and sparkleerose** (wow this is so sweet! Thank you so much! I'm so happy you loved this story, and thank you for your kind and thoughtful words! I feel so honored that you watched the show so quickly because of this little fic! If/when I ever get published, I'll definitely let you all know!) **for taking the time to leave reviews. I know I say it all the time, but your feedback really does mean so much to me, and it absolutely makes my day to hear from you!**

 **With all of that said... I'll see you soon for one last time!**


	52. 52) A Promise to Keep

"Okay. Okay, hang on." He was trying not to panic as he jumped out of bed, racing to change out of his pajamas, grab their things, and find his car keys all at once. It was safe to say he'd never driven so fast in his life. Why was it suddenly so hard to think straight? It probably had something to do with his wife, her face contorted in pain in the passenger seat. When they finally reached the hospital she gripped his hand like a vise, either unable to let go, or too scared to do so.

With one hand he managed to place a few much-needed phone calls, alerting his team that whatever happened, he wasn't going anywhere. This was one event Reid was not willing to miss. Another notification was to Alex Blake, to let her know that her godchild was arriving early.

After that, there were questions to answer and scrubs to don and a short journey to a small room where they would be spending the next few hours. Bianca was desperate for a distraction from the pain, and so he searched the bag for some of the books he'd had the foresight to pack. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he read Whitman poems to her for hours until his voice began to feel hoarse and a parade of doctors and nurses entered the room.

From there, time passed in a blur.

Dr. Molina gave her medicine, reminded her how to breathe. Reid tried his best to repeat their encouragements and make her laugh between breaths. Eventually it got to the point where she struggled to even muster a smile, and he knew that it was all happening, that this was very, very real.

As the minutes slid by, her fingers clenched his even tighter, her face was red, her tears became a wail, and he would've done anything to make it better, to make it stop. There were words coming from the doctors but he wasn't paying attention, medical jargon that he would've understood at any other time but not here, not now, not when Bianca needed him.

"What if I'm a bad mother?" Her question came out in a gasp between contractions.

"You won't be. Bianca, you are incredibly patient. You have the kindest heart and the brightest smile and all the best stories. I know for a fact that they're going to love you."

"I don't know if I can do this," she cried, squeezing his hand so hard he was sure it would leave a mark.

"I know you can," he told her. "I promise you can do this. I'm going to be by your side the whole time." She looked at him and he desperately wished he could take the pain from her brown eyes, but he was going to get her through this. No matter how long it took, he would make sure she made it through this. She was the strongest person he knew.

More breathing. More doctors. More time. Hours, minutes. Inhales, exhales. Tight grip. A scream.

And then suddenly, she wasn't the only one crying.

Where there had been five people in the room, there were now six, the newest addition in the arms of the obstetrician with thick glasses; a new set of lungs whimpering and bawling and taking in air for the first time.

He wrapped Bianca in a hug, kissing her damp forehead. "You did it. You did so good," he murmured. She only squeezed his hand in response, still catching her breath.

"Mr. Reid?" the nurse asked, and for once he didn't feel the need to correct someone with the proper title. "Would you like to meet your daughter?"

"Daughter?" he asked, breathless.

"It's a girl," the nurse told him. And then the woman was placing this tiny human being into his arms, swaddled in a blanket. She was so small and so pink, her eyes were so big and he never in his life had felt this way before. In all his years as an agent the urge to protect someone, to keep them safe, had never been quite so strong, and the countless times a parent asked if he had children all made sense to him now.

How could you love someone this much? An extension of your own heart, yours and your partner's, right there, living and breathing. When was the last time he'd ever found himself so lost for words? "Hi," he whispered. "Hi there." What was he supposed to say? "Hi, I'm Dr. Spencer Reid." No, that wasn't quite right. "I'm your dad." Yes. That was it. That was right. "It's nice to meet you."

Reid could've sworn she smiled then, just a little bit. _She._ God, they had a daughter. Moving gently – incredibly, deliberately slow now that there was this precious thing in his arms – back to the bed, he sat down beside his wife. "And this, this is your mom. Her name is Bianca. And she's the most incredible person in the whole world."

He watched as Bianca saw their daughter for the first time, and her face changed completely, all of the pain and exhaustion vanishing, replaced by pure love. Tears welled up in her eyes and her hand flew to her mouth, and only then did he realize that he too was crying. "Oh my god. She's beautiful." Never before had anything been more beautiful. Every sunset, every star, all of things on the planet that people wrote poems and songs about, immortalizing them in verse and in paintings; they all paled in comparison now. How had she never realized that she needed this baby in her life until that very moment?

"Spencer, she's so beautiful," Bianca repeated.

"She takes after you," he said quietly, and she finally managed to laugh, giving a weak smile as they both gazed at the little girl he held.

The nurse turned to them, craning her neck to make herself heard. "What's the name for the birth certificate?"

Bianca looked at him to ask his opinion, but he didn't need to think about it. There was one name that just felt right. "Elizabeth?" The name she had picked out so long ago came out like a question to his wife.

The look on Bianca's face told him she approved. "But what about her middle name?" she asked. "I know you've been thinking about your mom a lot."

"Diana still doesn't feel quite right," he admitted. "The Greek version of Diana is Artemis, but I think it might be a bit too fantastical."

"Well, both are goddesses of the moon. What about… Luna?"

"Elizabeth Luna. It's perfect," he said. Absolutely perfect. He confirmed it once more with the nurse. "Elizabeth Luna Reid." More wonderful words had never been spoken. Bianca gazed at her, fingers brushing the blanket their daughter was wrapped in.

"Can I hold her?" As though she even needed to ask. He passed the bundle of blankets to his wife, Elizabeth settling in her arms as though she'd belonged there all along. Bianca caressed her small pink cheeks, as wide little eyes looked back at her.

The three of them sat on the bed that way, taking it all in for a moment. That corner of hospital bed held his entire world. Reid had rescued kids before, even helped to deliver a baby once, but it was all the more worthwhile when that child was your own. It was absolutely indescribable.

There were tests to be run, and check-ins from various doctors and nurses as morning turned to afternoon. Between it all, they took every opportunity they could get to just rest in that corner, Reid's arms around Bianca and her arms gently cradling Elizabeth.

Their daughter. He still couldn't believe it.

Despite being early, Dr. Molina informed them that Elizabeth appeared healthy enough to go home in two or three days. The hospital room would be their limbo state, in between what their lives had been and what they would become. Their family of two had become three.

Reid was fairly certain he'd taken more photographs with his phone that day than he ever had before, not wanting to risk forgetting a single second, the exact details of this day. Sure, he could remember it, but it wasn't the same as tangibly having a picture of how small Elizabeth seemed compared to the crib, or the absolute glow on Bianca's face when she held their daughter to feed her for the first time.

The day had been long, and early in the evening both mother and daughter drifted off. Reid realized that he too was drained, and reminded himself that nothing would happen to either of them, as there was a steady stream of nurses coming in to check on both of them. He settled into the pullout couch, thoroughly exhausted from the day. And yet, he couldn't manage to stop smiling as he looked around the room. His wife, the love of his life, fast asleep in the hospital bed. Who, despite seven hours of labor, still made his heart skip a beat every time he saw her. And their daughter, sleeping in the transparent cradle, swaddled in a striped blanket.

Everything was perfect.

It was that thought that brought back so many memories of all the imperfection and struggle that had preceded this wonderful moment. How hard had he tried to give this all up? For so many years, he'd fought against ever letting such happiness even happen. In more ways than one, he had tried to let Bianca go, believing that she deserved better than him. In attempts to free her from his own fears, he'd hurt them both.

Somehow, she kept loving him. And every time he had tried to tell her that he wasn't enough, she proved him wrong. They needed each other. Their love was bigger than either of them. How foolish had he been to try and let this go? Why had he been so convinced he didn't deserve a happy ending?

When Bianca had agreed to marry him, he was certain that nothing would ever feel quite so good. And yet, time and time again, he discovered that happiness was capable of exponentially expanding.

Eyes heavy, he took one last look at the two girls he loved, before surrendering from one dream to another.

* * *

Time only mattered in a vague sense in the hospital. There were meals and there were rounds of different doctors and various nurses, but Reid was only vaguely aware of the passing of minutes, as the world outside their small room had been all but forgotten.

"Spencer," she'd said when she woke up, "we have a _baby_."

"We do," he said, chuckling. Elizabeth had woken up a few times during the night, but was currently dozing.

Bianca stared at their daughter, shaking her head. "I'd say it feels like a dream, but I feel too much pain for that to be true."

He sat down in the hospital bed with her, kissing her cheek. "You were so brave yesterday. You've been so brave for nine whole months."

In response, she pulled him into a hug. "You make feel brave. I couldn't do this without you." He buried his face against her shoulder, the hospital gown she wore smelling more of disinfectant than of her. He didn't care – it felt good to have her in his arms, though he held her gently, not wanting to cause her more discomfort.

"I love you more than I have words for," he said.

That morning, they took turns holding Elizabeth between naps and feedings, and he helped Bianca get to and from the tiny bathroom they had in the room, as well as to venture up and down the hallway to get comfortable with moving again.

He couldn't say for sure how much time had passed that afternoon before a doctor informed them they had visitors downstairs. Upon checking his phone, he saw he had several missed calls from Garcia.

"We should let them in, before Morgan breaks down the door," Bianca said. Soon enough, his team filed into the room, holding bags of gifts, and arms of flowers and balloons.

"Where's our newest family member?" Rossi asked. He was followed in by JJ, Emily, Garcia, Luke, Simmons, Tara, Morgan – and Alex Blake, who had taken the red-eye in last night.

He smiled at them. For so long, they had been the only family he had. And that's exactly what they were – a family. For every major event, every important day, they were always there for each other. This was a day for both of his families. Nodding towards the bundle in Bianca's arms, he said, "She's right here."

" _She?_ " Garcia was overjoyed. "You mean the long-reigning line of BAU boys has finally been broken?" There had been Jack, Henry, Michael, and Hank, even Emily's sort-of-stepson, Declan. All boys born to the profilers, but there was finally a girl. A daughter, his daughter.

"Hey, _I_ have a daughter," Rossi chimed in with mock-annoyance.

"Yeah, but you didn't even know Joy existed until two years ago. Not that she can't ascend to the BAU throne or whatever, but like, she's more of a duchess, like Simmons' daughters, and the boys are our princes, and now we finally have a princess." Garcia's reasoning prompted an eye-roll from their oldest member, but the smile didn't leave his face.

"Does she have a name yet?" Emily asked.

"Elizabeth," Bianca replied, a soft expression on her face as she looked down at their daughter. "Elizabeth Luna."

Garcia squealed. "That's _precious!_ Oh, you can bet I'm buying our princess all the moon-themed things I can find. Just wait until she's old enough to be introduced to Sailor Moon. And _look_ at her. She's perfect. Isn't she perfect?"

They milled around the bed, cooing and congratulating them. It was unanimously agreed that should anyone ever break that girl's heart, or hurt her feelings, there was going to be hell to pay; between a genius father, a godfather who could kick down doors without breaking a sweat, and a team of profilers who could locate an address and create a record of blackmail in a heartbeat.

Morgan held his goddaughter, bouncing her up and down gently. "Welcome to the family, Eliza Lou."

In the midst of celebration, Reid made his way over to Rossi. There was something that had dawned on him, a revelation realized hours ago when the nurse had placed his daughter in his arms for the first time. It felt important to vocalize it. "Rossi? Can I ask you something?" Dave nodded. "Do you remember that day, after Gideon died, and we were driving out to go over old files? And when we were talking, I said that it felt so empty, and you told me that someday I would find something to-"

Rossi held up a hand, cutting him off, but his eyes were soft. "I know, Spencer. I know." Of course he did. He too was a father, with empty spaces filled by an unexpected happiness, someone he had never imagined would someday exist. "And speaking of empty spaces – there's someone who wanted to be here today, but couldn't. This made its way to me though, and I think you and Bianca should have it." He withdraw envelope out from his pocket, with _For the Reids_ written on it in familiar stiff handwriting. One glance at Rossi confirmed his immediate reaction, and his heart skipped a beat knowing who it was from.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he hugged Rossi, thanking him for delivering the card. It meant the world to know that Hotch was still thinking of them. He set it by the window so he could read it with Bianca later, after the team had gone. At the moment, she looked so happy, talking excitedly to JJ and Alex. Emily had just handed Elizabeth to Luke, who was grinning and proudly declaring that the baby liked him – until she suddenly began to cry, and his face fell in disappointment.

He quickly gave her back to Bianca, who assured the agent that it wasn't him; she was probably just a little overwhelmed with the new sounds and smells. Reid walked over to join them, and tapped Alex on the shoulder. She turned to him with a look of pride that he could only think to describe as maternal, and it warmed his heart. When Diana was having a good day, he knew they'd all go to visit his mother so she could meet her granddaughter, but it was still nice to have somebody there at the hospital that felt like a parent to him.

Alex embraced him happily. "I'm absolutely delighted for you two, Reid. I couldn't think of two better parents."

"Thank you for being here," he said, and he hoped she could tell how much he meant it.

The smile on her face told him she did. "Thank _you_ for asking me to be her godmother. She's beautiful."

"Would you like to hold her?" Bianca offered.

Alex accepted, and gingerly took the newborn in her arms. "Beautiful," she repeated. "Elizabeth. It means _promise of God._ " And she looked between the three of them, something in her eyes that made him think of all the families she must have seen before. How she and James must have been in a room just like this, decades ago. Family histories repeated themselves, and though their tree may have been stitched together from several different kinds, it continued to grow, held together by a kind of love that didn't come from obligation, but from choice.

After everyone had had a chance to share their congratulations and see the baby, they finally decided to leave so the three could have space to rest. "Listen," Emily added, "I know that officially, Reid's time with the BAU has ended. But I want you both to know that you're still part of this family. We expect to see you at holidays and dinners. We're still here for you. And if you need anything – we're just a call away."

Morgan strayed back, waving the others briefly ahead. He clapped Reid on the shoulder. "You got a beautiful family here, kid. Now, I know walking away from the BAU wasn't easy. But I want you to know I'm proud of you. Though to be honest – you remember the day you told me about how you got breakfast together in the mornings?" He did, it hadn't been long after the return from his relapse. "Well, before then, I'd thought – but that day, I _knew_ – you would be putting her first. That someday you were gonna walk away, and it was gonna be for her."

Morgan walked over to wrap an arm around Bianca and give her a peck on the forehead. "And I'm real proud of you too, little lady. It's about time you two get your happy ending." He moved towards the door, and added, "Savannah and I did all this last year, so you just give us a shout when things get tough, or you need a night out. Now get some rest while you can – because it's gonna be a while before you get to sleep through the night again." With a wink and farewell, he shut the door behind him, and then it was just the three of them again.

Eliza, evidently tired from the excitement, was asleep in the crib again. The pullout couch was looking very appealing, as Reid found he too was still tired.

"Is there anything you need?" he asked Bianca.

"Maybe a nap?" He laughed, and she motioned for him to come closer, lacing her fingers through his once he did so. "Thank you for giving me this family. For making me a part of it."

"It wasn't complete without you," he murmured. It was the truth. Before her, there was something missing in his life, and no matter how hard he tried to fill it with books or work, it ached. It wasn't until he met her that he realized how acutely that empty space hurt. As though all along, his heart had been holding space for her, and now for Elizabeth. This perfect little family he somehow got to call his own.

He wasn't sure how he would've gotten through everything that had happened in the past few years without her – certainly it couldn't have been done without losing parts of himself. She helped him hold onto hope. She gave him a reason to come home. There was no home without her anymore.

As though she could sense the emotion threatening to overwhelm him, she gazed up at him and said, "I love you so much, Spencer."

"I love you, too." Reid kissed her hand. "You should get some sleep while you can."

"Will you lay with me?" she asked.

As much as he wanted to fall asleep with her in his arms, he knew that the nurses would be in and out all afternoon and evening, needing to check on her. "I think you still need space to heal," he said. "Besides, I don't want to get in the way of your nurses. But I'll be as close as I can." The pullout couch was easily dragged over to her bed, and he arranged it so that he could reach over and hold her hand from where he lay.

"Close enough?"

"For now, yeah," she replied. "But I can't wait to be home."

* * *

Two days later, they were given the all-clear to go home. Spencer had gone downstairs to take their bags to the car and get the baby seat set up. Bianca remained in bed, holding Elizabeth, who she'd just finished feeding. A pair of dark eyes stared up at her, wide with wonder, and she couldn't help but look back with equal astonishment.

After almost nine months, she was finally here. Their daughter. The same person who had kept her company through one of the most turbulent times in her life. Even in the depths of loneliness and worry, when Spencer was in prison, she hadn't been alone. Often she would walk around the house talking out loud to the baby, or writing poems and stories for them. It had given her a bit of comfort then, to know that she wasn't completely alone. That she carried a part of the love she and Spencer shared with her. And when Cat Adams had tried to tear their world apart, they had given her confidence. Each little kick a reminder of that tireless love.

Now that love was here, in person, and she could hold them in her arms. That love had a name. "Hi, Elizabeth," she whispered to her baby girl. "Hi, Eliza Lou." Elizabeth squirmed, blinking at her. "I love you. I love you. I'm so glad you're here."

The door creaked, and she looked up to see Spencer leaning against it. He grinned at her, and she felt herself blushing under the tenderness of his gaze. "Everything is all set," he announced, walking over to sit beside her. Instinctively, she leaned her head against his shoulder. "All we have to do is fill out the paperwork."

"Speaking of which—" The voice of Nora, one of the nurses who had been there frequently over the last three days was heard just as she stepped through the door. "I've got discharge forms right here for you." Spencer took Elizabeth so that Bianca's hands were free to sign everywhere that was needed, and Nora traded her neatly stapled copies of instructions for new parents and things to watch out for the in the next few days, as well as numbers for the doctors and hospital.

"That's everything I need," Nora said. "When you're ready, you can go ahead and get changed out of the gown, and then I'll get you a wheelchair. Make sure you take everything with you – especially the baby," she joked.

Bianca looked apprehensively at the door, then looked back at Nora. "So that's it? We're ready to go home and take care of this new person?" Spencer squeezed her hand, and the nurse's eyes flickered between them, a gentle smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.

"You _are_ ready," she said. "Whether you know it or not. Trust me. I've been at this hospital for twenty-seven years. I've seen a lot of couples. A lot of first-time parents. But in all my years, I can count on one hand the number of people who look at each other the way the two of you do. It's not hard to see how much you love each other. You can practically feel it. And if you can love another person that much, you'll be fine parents." She tapped the papers Bianca held. "You've got our contact info if you need it. But you can do this. Now let's get out of here – you deserve to be in a comfortable bed in a room that doesn't smell like disinfectant."

If they could get through overdoses, sociopathic siblings, and serial killers with a grudge, surely they could get through this. They hadn't been prepared for any of the losses they were faced with, and they had survived by leaning on each other. This wasn't a loss at all. It was an addition, a beautiful, hope-filled addition, one they had been preparing for for months.

After thanking the nurse, Spencer helped Bianca change from the hospital gown into a loose dress and cardigan. Nora returned with a wheelchair and wished them well, and another nurse pushed Bianca down to the parking lot. Elizabeth was in her arms, and Spencer walked beside them until they reached the car, step by step making their way to the life they would now lead, a world made wider by the addition of this little life. How precious, how perfect it was.

Though she trusted that the car seat was properly set up, she couldn't stop herself from glancing in the rearview mirror every now and then as they drove home to make sure Eliza was still there. As though she might vanish into thin air if she couldn't keep their daughter in her line of sight. And while he'd always been a careful driver, she swore Spencer had never driven so gently or slowly in his life.

It felt strange to walk into their home with one more person than they'd left it with. This space that was so familiar to her would be brand new to their daughter. And yet, it would be the home she'd grow up knowing. One full of books and full of love. Would she be happy here? Would she come to adore this space the way they had? Would they be able to provide her with all that she needed to grow up with joy?

Spencer unpacked their things upstairs, then they sat in the living room, taking turns holding Elizabeth and fielding phone calls from friends and colleagues who had heard the news through other friends and social media. Eva was positively ecstatic, calling despite it being 1 AM in England. Ivy and Jess promised to visit soon and bring plenty of coffee, Tanvi and Aiden each rang with their congratulations. After an early dinner of sandwiches – one of the few dishes Spencer trusted himself not to mess up – they found themselves quite exhausted.

Sleep was of utmost priority, so they climbed upstairs to give what would be their new nightly routine a first try. After making sure Elizabeth was fed and changed, they carefully set her down in the nursery crib. A mobile of planets and stars twirled above her little head. Spencer pulled the curtains shut to block out the evening light. They stood together, talking softly, creating a sort of lullaby from whispered words. Spencer hummed softly, the quiet notes of a Fleetwood Mac ballad coming out just a little off-key.

Every action was so gentle, so sweet. She found herself unable to take her eyes off of the tiny human lying there, enraptured with each movement she made. How unusual, not to feel those butterfly-light kicks and squirms from within. For a moment, she felt a strange sort of absence. On the other hand, she realized, it was now possible to soothe their child when she was upset, to embrace her and talk to her and make her laugh.

Soon enough, Eliza was sleeping soundly in the crib, and Bianca leaned her head against his shoulder. "Everything is going to change," she murmured, as he wrapped one arm around her waist.

"It's going to be a great adventure," he replied. It took a few minutes for them to finally leave the nursery, flopping down onto their bed in equal exhaustion. It was a welcome change from the stiffness of hospital furniture. Everything was changing, but it was more like everything was beginning. The start of an adventure, just as he'd said. The start of the rest of their lives.

From across the bed she reached for Spencer. "Will you read to me?" she asked.

"What do you want to hear?"

"Frost," she decided. "Robert Frost."

In the dim light of the nightstand lamp, Spencer thumbed over the spines of various titles before finding the right one. Propped up against the headboard, she nestled close to his chest, his arm holding her securely to his side. Everything that mattered most was there, under that roof. Their daughter in the room next door, Spencer right next to her, close enough that she could feel his heartbeat as he opened the book and began to read.

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," he started. That was one of her favorites. His voice was low and soft, soothing and familiar. Content, that was what she was. Content to spend the rest of her days with him, for better or for worse, just as they'd promised. So many promises over the years, from that first afternoon in her apartment where they'd shared those unpublished chapters and he'd spilled coffee on her rug; to her repeated sentiment that she would stay with him through withdrawal and whatever else would follow; to the vows they'd exchanged in that church, their best friends and closest family there to bear witness. And not to mention all the little promises, to return with coffee, to listen, to support, to be there, to live and to love, always together.

Every last word she intended to keep, for all of forever. The keeping of words wasn't always easy, but love was always worth it. He was always worth it. And now there was someone now, that sleeping child to whom a whole new string of promises would be made and kept. Elizabeth herself was a promise between them, the best one they would ever keep. Bianca settled in Spencer's arms as he read them both to sleep.

" _Whose woods are these I think I know.  
His house is in the village though;  
He will not see me stopping here  
To watch his woods fill up with snow._

 _My little horse must think it queer  
To stop without a farmhouse near  
Between the woods and frozen lake  
The darkest evening of the year…"_

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **FIRST, let me please say this: I cannot believe it has been over two years since I started writing this story. Two years, and 52 chapters, and so so many words. What started as a little idea became a whole saga, and I have had so much fun on this journey, and I'm so glad you could join me. Seriously, if you have stuck it out, THANK YOU. THANK YOU KIND STRANGER FOR READING ALL THESE WORDS I WROTE. Thank you for putting up with me and loving this little world I have made. I hope it's meant something to you, at it has meant to me.**

 **SECOND, if you would be kind enough to grant me one last request - it is still crazy to me that so many people have read this story. I can't even begin to comprehend it, but I would love to hear from you. If this story has moved you in any way, please please leave a review and tell me about anything! What you thought about it? Any moments/scenes/characters/chapters/etc. that you loved and/or hated! Tell me about why you started reading this or why you kept reading it. Share any head canons you have! Literally anything, haha. It would make my day.**

 **THIRD, some thank-you are in order.  
** **THANK YOU TO raut3, manyfandomsgirl, CheckAlexa, MisMeuhPotter, CandyMe21, wildanimal1, Moonseed912, Xakura Revolution, Miffybeth, BriannaNanda, Ria927, DarkFireNyx, Honeybunny0114, rockyroad04, Pikachu17, Halkyone, BrySt1, NotSoSweetAndInnocentAnymore, Smile-Smile-Twitch, Queen Black-Malfoy, dallas1990, AmandaRose158, and DemonCats for following/favoriting this story!**

 **And a HUGE THANK YOU to thetracyset** (oh wow, thanks for following along for such a long time! I don't know what I'll do either haha!), **mrs Tall Blonde and Dead** (gotta have at least one last cliffhanger. I hope this lived up to your expectations! A girl indeed!), **OctoberOpal** (I apologize, I can't believe it took me three plus months to finish this!), **sparkleerose** (oh, thank you so much! I'm so glad you've liked the words I've used - I am always worried about choosing the right ones), **dianakotori** (I really do think so. And yes, crazy isn't it? Almost half of his life he's been in the BAU. Thank you!), **Love-Fiction-2018** (thanks!), **Raut3** (I know I know, so mean! I'm so glad I updated at the right time haha, and welcome back!), **Cee** (I'm so excited you finally get a chance to see them!), **and BrySt1** (it's finally here! Trust me, I couldn't wait to share it, but life kept getting in the way) **for your kind reviews and feedback. I say it a lot, but it means the world to me.**

 **FOURTH, this is where I conclude the story of Spencer Reid and Bianca Brown. Maybe I'll begin to miss them and maybe I'll post a little companion piece of vignettes and scenes I wanted to add but didn't, or ended up taking out for length. But for now, I have given you all I have for them, and I'm so grateful that you've indulged me in this. This was my first full story, and I have loved them deeply, and loved all of you deeply, and I'm so grateful to be able to reach the happy end of it. It will be bittersweet to say goodbye.**

 **Now without further ado, the epilogue...**


	53. Epilogue

"Elizabeth!" Bianca called down the hallway, waiting for a reply. "Ellie?" Still no response. Confused, she ventured into her daughter's room, where the lights were off. "Eliza Lou, where are you?"

"Rarr!" The small girl leapt out from behind her bed, her hands held out like claws. She had donned her Halloween costume, a bright orange tiger suit, complete with a tail and a hood with little ears. Bianca laughed, scooping Eliza up in her arms.

"There are you are, dear heart. You surprised me!"

"I'm a tiger, mama! Were you scared?" Eliza gazed up at her intently.

"I most certainly was! I was worried a tiger had gobbled you up!" Conspiratorially she leaned in to whisper in her daughter's ear. "I have an idea. Why don't we hide, and we can surprise your daddy too, hmm?" Eliza was delighted with the notion. Lights still off, they crept over to a corner of the room near the dresser, squeezing into a space behind it that was small enough only for the two of them. She reminded Elizabeth to stay quiet in the dim room while they waited for the sound of footsteps.

"Bianca?" Spencer's voice echoed from nearby. The light switch was flicked on as he stepped into the bedroom, and they could make out his mismatched socks from behind the dresser. "Eliza? Bianca?"

"Ready?" she whispered. "One, two…" He came closer to their side of the room. "Three!"

"ROAR!" Mother and daughter jumped out together and Spencer let out a shriek, stumbling backwards and nearly tripping over the bed. That sent his wife into another fit of giggles, watching her brilliant husband – the same man who had once hunted killers for a living – startle so easily.

"Don't worry, daddy, it's just me!" Eliza pulled down her little tiger hood, her hair still static-y from the fuzzy fabric.

Spencer clutched his hand to his chest. "Jeez, give an old man a heart attack, why don't you?" He sent a pointed glance in Bianca's direction, and she moved to wrap her arms around him.

"You're not an old man, my love. And I was just helping Elizabeth practice for Halloween." He was nearly forty, but he wore middle-age well, hardly any different than the day she'd met him, save for his hair. He'd grown it out and cut it to various lengths, but it was never quite as long as it had been that first year. The love he had for Halloween hadn't diminished over time, either. Presently their driveway was lined with no less than thirteen Jack-O-Lanterns.

Spencer shook his head in exasperation, but a toothy, crooked grin was on his face. "You're lucky I love you." He placed a quick kiss on her lips before turning his attention to Eliza.

"Did we scare you?" she asked, tugging on his hand. "Were you afraid?"

Spencer nodded. "You bet. I'm afraid of lots of things, you know." That was something they'd agreed upon as parents, to be as honest with her as possible, to let her know it was okay to be scared or sad or upset, and to teach her how to cope with what she felt.

"Like what?"

He reached down to scoop Eliza up in his arms. "I'm scared of the dark, for starters. And I'm afraid of elevators and of bad guys. Of something happening to you or your mom. And I have a terrible fear of running long distances."

"Don't forget spinach," Bianca teased.

"Your mother," he continued, his fingers running up and down her forearm, "is afraid of things too. She's terrified of thunderstorms."

Elizabeth laughed, a musical sound that they'd grown to adore. "I already know that." She was still young enough to be scared of the storms, waking with the sound of thunder. By the time she jumped out of bed, a stuffed owl tucked under one arm, the door of her parents' bedroom would already be open; and without fail she would find them waiting under a blanket fort on the floor with a flashlight and a stack of books, Bianca huddled particularly close to her husband while he stroked her hair and spoke quietly. When their daughter showed up, she would put on a brave face and hold her tight, the three of them riding out the thunder together with poems and children's books and stories until the storm subsided or until they were too sleepy to stay awake any longer. Those nights ended either with the two of them tucking Eliza back under the covers in her own room, or with all three curled up in the same bed.

"What else are you scared of mama?"

Bianca considered the question, wanting to give her a proper response. "I don't like cockroaches, or big spiders. I worry whenever your dad is away for work. I'm afraid of losing him, or you. Big roller coasters frighten me. I used to be scared of other things too." Her biggest fears, had been conquered seven and five years ago, respectively.

Now the young girl was more intrigued, her head tilting to the side. "How do you stop being afraid of stuff?"

The answer was as important as those of the previous questions, and she wanted to make sure Eliza understood. "You work really hard to figure out _why_ something scares you. With time, and with the help of people who care about you, you don't feel so frightened. But it's okay to be scared of things. Being brave doesn't mean you aren't afraid of anything, it means that you do what you need to do, even if it scares you." Someday, she thought, she would turn a few Eleanor Roosevelt quotes into paper posters to hang in her daughter's room.

Intuitive as she was, Elizabeth spoke what the sort of observant candor that only children are capable of. "Does daddy help you not to be afraid of things?" Bianca laughed, and confirmed that, yes, he did. There were so many fears she'd harbored; about family, about intimacy, about being a mother; yet somehow he always seemed to help prove to her that she was capable. "But you make me feel very brave too," she added.

The child seemed satisfied with that response, and Spencer ruffled her hair. "Well then, my little tiger, if we're going to go out trick-or-treating tomorrow, you'd better get some sleep."

Tomorrow evening, the three of them were to meet with their extended BAU family – Eliza's "aunts" and "uncles" as well as her "cousins." Even Alex was returning for a visit, and Elizabeth couldn't wait to see her godmother again. Bianca kneeled down to unzip the orange onesie and pull a nightgown over her daughter's head.

"Can we read something first?" she begged. She was inquisitive and curious, a trait she'd inherited from Spencer, devouring books and stories just as quickly. Her mother prided herself on having at least bestowed an early love of poetry on her, the girl now grabbing for the Frost anthology on the small bookshelf in Eliza's bedroom. "The one with the snowy woods," she clarified.

"Only if you get in bed," her father answered. Since the birth of their daughter, Spencer had retired from the BAU to teach full-time. Every now and then he would travel to another state to guest lecture at a university, and while she knew he was safe, it still stirred up familiar feelings of worry. But having him home every night, there to help put Elizabeth to bed, to celebrate holidays, it made all the little things feel that much more special. She herself traveled from time to time, depending on where a legal case took her, but so far she'd been able to bring her family on a handful of international trips, and between herself and Spencer, they'd never had to leave their daughter alone for a night.

Eliza complied, hopping up onto her mattress and passing the book to her parents, who sat side by side on the edge of the bed, so they could hold it open for her. She read the first stanza, reciting most of it from memory, and Bianca suspected it wouldn't belong before their daughter would know several poems by heart. Spencer took the second verse, his gentle tone already calming Elizabeth, her eyelids drooping. She had her father's wavy, light brown hair and her mother's freckles and dark eyes, always wide with wonder.

Bianca ran her hand through Eliza's hair as she read the third verse to her. How had the years gone by so quickly? There was no way she could be five already. Soon enough she would be off to kindergarten, thrilled to start school. It seemed an impossible notion, but then again, it was hard to believe that she herself was thirty-five, that they'd been married for seven years, that they'd known each other for eleven. Time moved fast, waiting for no one.

 _"He gives his harness bells a shake  
To ask if there is some mistake.  
The only other sound's the sweep  
Of easy wind and downy flake."_

Sure enough, she had nodded off to sleep already, her little mouth curved up in a peaceful smile. Spencer reached over to pull the blankets up over the small girl while Bianca pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Goodnight, Eliza Lou." Rarely did she stay awake through an entire poem, but they would read to her regardless, all the way to the last line. Resting her head on Spencer's shoulder, she linked her hands with his, finishing the last of the poem together as they always did.

* * *

" _The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep._"

* * *

 **Thank you for reading The Keeping of Words.**


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